


Life Beyond the Silver Moon

by SailorChibi



Series: Silver Moon [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha!Mycroft, Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega!Greg, Omega!John, Sequel, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 46,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thought the most he'd have to worry about now that Moriarty was dead was figuring out how to get a job without Sherlock getting him fired and the planning the bonding ceremony with Mummy Holmes. But it turns out Mummy's not so pleased about the choice her sons have made, and she has different plans: namely a slinky dominatrix and her partner. That, plus a brilliant and dangerous new case involving a famous blackmailer and having both his and Greg's families plus the Holmes around, makes John long for the days when the only thing he had to worry about was a psychopath.</p><p>As of May 2014 this story has been put on permanent hiatus. It will <b>not</b> be completed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to [Beneath the Silver Moon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/445738/chapters/762466) and you may want to read that first. Popular demand insisted on a sequel and I had to oblige.

Doctor Sarah Sawyer was of middle age, but she was still fresh faced and pretty. Her eyes were a fetching shade of blue, complimented by the blue sweater that she was wearing, and she had a lovely smile, but all of that did little to mask her serious expression. She had her hands folded on the desk as she said, "I know that you're an omega, John, but what I'm asking you is what you think you can offer my surgery. I've never had a werewolf working here before, and - as much as it pains me to say - I have to make sure that hiring you isn't going to be a safety issue when it comes to our patients. Up until now this has been one of the few human locums, and they come first you know."

"I'm not dangerous, Sarah, I swear," John said quietly. He knew why she was asking; what had happened at the hospital lingered between the both of them. Tension had been high when John first entered the office, and he couldn't help noticing the spike in tension when it come to Sarah's scent. He was pretty sure that if Sherlock had been the one to come in, Sarah probably would have already jumped out the window. 

"Maybe you aren't, but your mate..." Sarah trailed off and gave her head a little shake as she spread her hand out over his CV. "I'm concerned about what might happen if you came into contact with another alpha. For the most part, the only people we see are humans. But occasionally a werewolf does find his or her way in, and sometimes it is an alpha. That might become a more common occurrence as word spreads that we have a werewolf doctor on staff. I can't have Sherlock bursting in here, furious because he sees his property being threatened."

John tried not to bristle at the implication that he was Sherlock's property, if only because he understood that some alpha-omega relationships did work that way. He and Sherlock, however, had a very equal partnership. "That was... there were extenuating circumstances, Sarah. I know that might sound like an excuse, but it's really not. I was going into heat and Sherlock and I had just come through a fairly serious fight where both of us nearly died." He watched her carefully, knowing that, like most of the doctors who had treated them, she had only been given a vague explanation of what had gone on with Moriarty. "I've been tracking my heats a lot more carefully. If I know it's coming, I won't come into work. Simple as that."

Sarah let out a slow sigh. "Well, to tell the truth I do need someone," she admitted, giving him a small smile. "And you do seem to be a very qualified doctor... maybe too qualified, I think for the most part you'll probably end up being bored. But I'm willing to give you a shot. Why don't you come in tomorrow morning and we'll see how the day goes?"

"That would be great," John said, trying not to sound too excited. "I swear, the fact that I'm a werewolf and mated won't be an issue."

"I hope so," Sarah said, not looking at all sure about her decision. "It remains to be seen whether or not this vacation of yours will be have to be permanent." She stood up and shook his hand before she saw him to the door. John faltered when he saw Sherlock standing right outside, and Sarah noticeably stiffened. 

He had to ask. "Am I fired?" 

To her credit, Sarah forced another smile. "No," she said, the implied 'not yet' hanging in the air. "Hello, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock gave the sort of distracted nod that meant he had no idea who she was, which wasn't really all that surprising. John still didn't remember a lot about those few days of blinding heat, and Sherlock wasn't inclined to remember anyone that he didn't consider to be important on a good day. The doctor who had tried to keep him and John separated was probably deleted the second she left the room. He said, "John, come on. I've just got a text from Lestrade. He's waiting for us at a new crime scene."

"Alright," said John. "Thanks again, Sarah. I look forward to starting tomorrow, really."

"It'll be an experience," Sarah said wryly, and then she retreated into her office and closed the door with as much dignity as she could. John was pretty sure he heard the door lock. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, knowing that she wouldn't be able to hear so long as he kept his voice pitched low enough to be inaudible to human ears. Times like this, he felt he was finally beginning to get the hang of this whole werewolf thing. Sometimes it was actually blessing, which was sort of nice considering how often it was more of a curse.

"I told you, there's a new case. I couldn't go without my assistant."

"You almost cost me my job!"

The only response to that was a distinctly unimpressed look from under lowered eyelashes. Sherlock had made no effort to hide how pointless he thought it was that John was trying to procure a job of his own. He'd pointed out that he had more than enough funds, thanks to a healthy trust account he'd got full access to after he stopped with the drugs, to keep all of the bills paid even if he and John never chose to work again. He couldn't seem to understand that John didn't want to depend on him. He wanted to work, even if it was just two or three days a week at a human surgery. It was the sort of work most werewolves would never lower themselves to - or be allowed to do, considering that few humans would give them the opportunity. He still couldn't believe that Sarah had said yes.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of nose with his index finger and thumb. If he was waiting for some sort of apology, he knew that he was going to have a spectacularly long wait. Like a little child, Sherlock had just about thrown a tantrum at the idea that John wouldn't be available to him at all times. No matter how many times John explained that he wanted to have a life outside of Sherlock, if only so that he wasn't driven to the point of wanting to kill the idiot in his sleep, Sherlock didn't get it. Mostly because he just didn't want to, like if he protested often enough John would eventually come to see the light and give up on the idea of trying to work.

That was not going to happen. John Watson was nothing if not stubborn, and he was determined to at least make an attempt at this. He reached out and took Sherlock's arm, none too gently towing him along. As they stepped out into the cool air, he said quietly, "I know you don't like this, but it will make me happy. I'll still be able to go on cases with you, I still want to be your mate, and I've even agreed to go meet your parents next week. So I expect you to at least stop trying to sabotage my efforts to get a job - and no matter what you say, Sherlock Holmes, I know that's why you were here."

Sherlock just sniffed, but the light pink flush that spread into his cheeks told John that he had stumbled across the truth. A little less firmly, he added, "I already explained to Sarah that I won't be around next week and she's okay with that."

"So the one thing that your job could have actually served for is now useless," Sherlock muttered. 

John laughed. "Oh, come on. It won't be that bad," he said in spite of his own growing doubts. Mycroft had been the one to insist that he and Sherlock needed to go home for a visit, and that it would only be right to bring their mates along. Greg had not looked too thrilled at the suggestion either, but like John he couldn't seem to find a way to say no that wouldn't be insulting to the Holmes family. So even though Sherlock was the most vocally opposed to the whole idea, John had said yes.

Now, as the date for their departure loomed closer, he was beginning to wish he'd chosen to be insulting. He was pretty sure this was just a thinly veiled cover for them to be pressured about the bonding ceremony. He hadn't said yes yet to Sherlock's awkwardly phrased proposal - if it could even be called that - mostly because he wasn't sure this was actually what Sherlock wanted, or if it was just what _Mycroft_ thought that they should want. It was surprisingly easy to get Sherlock to agree to do something if you appealed to his possessive alpha instincts, and John had been around them both long enough to know that Mycroft wasn't above doing just that.

"You don't know my family," Sherlock said, drawing John's attention away from his worrying thoughts. 

"I know you," John pointed out, lacing their fingers together. "I love you. Nothing could ever change that, not even the worst family on the face of the planet." He smiled a little, knowing that went both ways, crossing his fingers that it would stay that way when Sherlock met Harry for the first time.

Sherlock studied his face for a moment before he sighed. "Any chance I could persuade you to accept a case in Northern France?"

"You were offered a case in France?"

"I could be."

It was a tempting offer, he had to admit, but... "No, I'm pretty sure if we bowed out at the last minute Greg would actually kill me. And then he would refuse to ever involve you in a case again, which means he'd effectively kill you too."

"He wouldn't be able to hold out for longer than a month," Sherlock said confidently as he raised a hand to flag down a cab.

"We're going," John said firmly, ignoring his mate's pout, and hoped that this wouldn't turn out to be a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

As the clock clicked down, Greg’s pile of paperwork diminished more slowly until he was writing his signature at the pace of a child just learning. He stared at the last few forms with increasing trepidation, wondering what the chances were that he’d be summoned out on a case in the next fifteen minutes. Considering that the met had been largely quiet all day, it wasn’t looking good. Of course even if a call did come through Mycroft had made it abundantly clear that morning that he was not to respond, not unless he wanted Mycroft to personally come drag him off a crime scene.

Mycroft would do it, too. Of that, Greg had no doubt. 

His groan was loud enough that it caught Sally’s attention. She came to the doorway and surveyed him, smirking. All those years when she’d complained about having to meet the parents of various boyfriends, she hadn’t got much sympathy. She was thoroughly enjoying this turn of events. “Something wrong?” she asked pleasantly.

Greg mustered up a glare. “Shut up.”

She laughed outright, running a hand through her hair. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. You’ve met his mother before, you like her. Personally I feel worse for Watson, being thrown in with no prep whatsoever and only the freak for protection. He must be fucking terrified.”

“I think he’ll do fine,” said Greg. It was something he’d contemplated a couple of times already, but he was pretty sure - or rather, he hoped that John would win Mrs Holmes over without too much difficulty. He was a good man, and more than that he was besotted with Sherlock. That was really all Mrs Holmes would need to hear (right?). That wasn’t what Greg was worried about. It was the prospect of a bonding ceremony.

Becoming a werewolf had changed his status at NSY, granting him respect in certain circles where before there had been none. As a human he had reached the limit of his potential in a wolf dominated profession, but now, if he was interested, there were select promotions available to him – less than there would have been if he’d been an alpha, but a few all the same. He just wasn’t sure if he was. It bothered him that he hadn't been considered worthy just because he was a human. Furthermore, he still enjoyed going to crime scenes and working with Sherlock. Much higher up the line, he’d be confined to a desk. That wasn’t his idea of a fun time.

However, that hadn’t stopped several people from dropping less than subtle hints, especially once news of his impending bonding ceremony had broken. It was inevitable in their eyes, and Mycroft was the sort of powerful and influential mate that could have had Greg at the top of Scotland Yard in a few short years if he wanted. His superiors wanted him in a position where they could show him off, to put it bluntly, and he was concerned that it was only going to get worse once everything was official.

And then, of course, there was the frankly terrifying prospect of being submitted to the less than tender mercies of Mrs Holmes while she planned the whole spectacle.

“Please,” Greg pleaded, giving her his best set of puppy eyes. “Paperwork, a case, witness statements, _anything_.”

“Sorry, boss,” she replied with a grin, coming just close enough to snitch the remaining documents from his desk. “I have it on good authority that if I do anything to halt, hinder or otherwise delay your progress out of here tonight, I’ll find myself on duty with the freak for the next six months. And that’s really more of Sherlock Holmes than I can handle. You’re on your own. Just remember what I told you and you'll be fine.” She tossed him a cheeky salute and fled, dodging the pen he hurtled in her direction. It bounced harmlessly to the floor while Greg scowled.

Bloody Mycroft. It was just like him to be one step ahead all the time. _He_ was thrilled to be heading home, having finally got everything he’d always wanted with the man he wanted it with. Greg couldn’t even be too angry, because it really was adorable to see how excited Mycroft was. He couldn’t wait to formally introduce Greg to the Holmes family, to his pack, as his mate, and he couldn’t seem to grasp why Greg and his brother weren’t looking forward to this. For once, Greg and Sherlock were in perfect agreement: this was going to be miserable.

“Oh well,” Greg muttered under his breath, reluctantly getting to his feet. He’d put it off as long as he could, but it was time to suck it up and head home. They were catching the train that night. “It could be worse, I suppose. My parents could be there too.”

Later, sitting in a train compartment along with John, Sherlock and Mycroft, he would reflect on those words and wonder why he didn’t quit his job as a detective inspector and set up shop as a psychic. Because clearly, he was. He stared at Mycroft, speechless, pretty sure the look of complete horror on John’s face was a perfect match for the one written across his own. Sherlock, meanwhile, had lifted his head from his phone and was actually looking intrigued in something other than a case for the first time in weeks. Greg hated him a little bit for that.

“What do you mean,” John said hoarsely.

“Exactly what I said, John. Mummy has invited your families to join us,” said Mycroft, all wide eyed innocence, like wasn’t this the best news ever? 

Greg was sorely tempted to chuck his umbrella out the window.

“Why?” John said, his horror not diminishing in the least. “I just. Why. Why would she do that?”

“It’s customary,” Sherlock spoke up, eyes twinkling with poorly suppressed amusement. “If your parents were wolves, they would be extremely offended if Mummy left them out of the preparations for the bonding ceremony. It’s supposed to be a celebration, after all.” He sounded slightly distasteful, adding, “I expect she wants to start things off on the right foot.” 

"But my parents aren't wolves," said Greg a bit desperately, because he felt like that needed to be pointed out. Repeatedly, if necessary, until Mycroft took the hint and called this madness off.

"Mummy insisted," Mycroft said simply.

Damn him. _Damn_ him for keeping this a secret, since there was no doubt in Greg's mind that Mycroft would have known quite far in advance that this was going to happen. He'd waited until the last possible moment to inform Greg so that he wouldn't be able to contact his parents and beg them not to show up, manners be damned. And why? _Why_ would they have accepted? Had Mummy Holmes not informed that they would be attending a gathering of werewolves? 

In spite of his curiosity Mycroft had never met his parents before, and for good reason. His mother and father were perfectly good, hard-working, nice people... except when it came to werewolves. Neither of them had ever made any attempt at hiding their loathing, and Greg's childhood had been filled with regular, detailed rants from his father about how werewolves had stolen all of the proper jobs and how none of them could be trusted. Coming from a fairly small, human town, it wasn't surprising - but Greg had never wanted them to meet Mycroft. Not until he could be certain that they wouldn't say anything spiteful or cruel... so, basically never.

He turned his face to the window, watching the scenery flash by with unfocused eyes as he thought about all of the ways in which this could go spectacularly wrong. He had chosen not to inform his parents about the change or the mating, instead allowing them to believe that he was only casually dating a random bloke and that he was still completely human. He'd thought briefly on what their reaction might be before he'd gone through with it, but at the time it had been easy to think he'd talk them around. Now, faced with actually doing so, he wondered bleakly if it wouldn't be easier to just follow Mycroft's brolly out the window.

"Gregory?"

The sound of Mycroft's openly concerned voice was enough to make him turn away from the glass. He realized that while he'd been lost in thought, John and Sherlock had vacated the compartment. It was just him and Mycroft's penetrating gaze. "Sorry, what?"

Mycroft studied him for what felt like a long moment before he spoke. "Do you not want your parents to meet me?" he asked, and there was a hint of hesitation there that made Greg straighten up with all senses on full alert. It hadn't occurred to him before that Mycroft might have been worried about this.

"No, My, that's not it at all," he said gently. "It's just... my parents aren't the easiest people in the world to get along with. That's actually why I don't go home to visit very often." He smiled wryly, remembering the last time that he'd gone. His mother had basically spent his last night there begging him not to return to London. Needless to say, he'd been relieved to leave. "I don't want them to insult you or your family."

"Your parents don't like werewolves," Mycroft surmised.

"Got it in one," Greg said, leaning back a little. "Only it's not so much that they don't like werewolves as having a level of hatred on par with Sherlock's feelings towards Anderson."

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly. "I see."

Greg wasn't certain that he did, but he nodded. "Yeah. So believe me when I say that it's not you I'm worried about, love. They'll love you." Or at least, he hoped so - because otherwise this whole vacation was going to be an utter disaster.


	3. Chapter 3

John was very quiet as the train pulled into the station and the four of them disembarked along with the rest of the passengers. He could tell that Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued; the man kept darting curious looks in his direction, clearly itching to question him. The only reason he’d escaped an interrogation so far was because he’d made it apparent early on that such conversations weren’t to be had in public. It was hard enough living with a man who could deduce nearly everything about him without said deductions taking place in front of strangers.

A car was waiting for them, and the drive to the estate was spent in silence. Greg, John could tell, was looking forward to this about as much as John was. They exchanged commiserating grimaces as the driver finally pulled off the road, heading up towards a large home prominently displayed on top of a little hill. There was no one waiting out front, thank god, or John might have taken off in the opposite direction. He got out slowly and moved automatically to help with the bags. So did Greg, which meant they were both partially hidden by the door when the front door swung open.

The woman who walked out took John’s breath away. She was stunning, tall and slender with dark hair pulled back into a chignon and only a few curls left free to frame her face. Her clothing was simple and understated, a blue jacket with a white skirt and top, but it had the same crispness as Sherlock’s suits that indicated it had no doubt cost a fortune. As she got closer, he noticed that her eyes were the same volatile blue-grey-green as her youngest son. That left no doubt in his mind that this was Mummy – also known as Violet Holmes.

“Mes petits,” she said in a soft, slightly accented voice, reaching one hand out to each man.

“Mummy,” Mycroft said, stepping in close to drop a kiss onto her cheek. Sherlock copied the motion, his lips barely brushing her skin, and Violet’s smile grew wider.

“Was it a terribly long trip?” she inquired. “But of course it was, look at how tired you both are. You must be hungry, too. I’ve had the cook prepare a little snack to tide you over until dinner. Oh, boys, leave the suitcases for the staff. There’s no need for you to be doing that!”

John jumped at being so suddenly addressed. Greg sighed and set the suitcase down, moving forward to greet her first. “Hello Violet,” he said. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

“You too, dear,” Violet said, and was it John’s imagination or did the warmth in her eyes and voice cool fractionally when she looked at the two of them? She shook Greg’s hand – or rather, she clasped his hand for a split second before releasing it and stepping towards John. Her gaze swept up and down, frankly assessing.

“Hi,” John said, clearing his throat. He wasn’t sure if this was worse or better than what he’d been imagining. “I’m John. John Watson.”

“I know.” She took another step, pressing into his space, and he stiffened his spine against the urge to take a step back. The scent that greeted him when he inhaled instinctively surprised him; he wondered why Sherlock had failed to mention that Violet Holmes was an alpha. He'd assumed that she would be a beta or an omega. Her eyes glittered, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, before she suddenly stepped back.

She turned away without saying another word, leaving him feeling as though he’d been dismissed, and swept over to her sons. “Lunch!” she announced, sliding her arms through theirs and tugging them along. It was nothing short of astonishing to watch Sherlock willingly allow himself to be pulled up the steps, because usually if anyone else would have tried that he'd have thrown a fit. 

“Well,” Greg said finally, when the three of them had disappeared inside of the house, “that didn’t go too badly.”

“It wasn’t great,” said John.

“Actually…”

“I thought you said you’d met her before and she was really nice!”

Greg sighed again and rubbed his forehead. “She _was_. I've only spoken to her on the phone, but that was before we got here and she got the chance to scent me. Us. Before she realized that Sherlock and Mycroft had actually gone through with the mating. Before she had the opportunity to approve of us or not. John, she’s an _alpha_ and Sherlock and Mycroft are her kids.” His smile was more of a wince. “Think mama bear times a hundred. How did you think it was going to work?”

“Not like this.” Suddenly all of John’s concern about his parents, the possibility that Harry might show up, and being pushed into a premature bonding ceremony seemed foolish. “But Mycroft made it sound like she was pleased… and Sherlock did, too.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve learned that even Mycroft has a few blind spots. He’ll never admit it because it goes against everything he thinks he knows about himself, but it’s the truth. His mother happens to be one of them.” Greg glanced back at the house again. His expression was troubled. “Sally warned me - I was hoping that this wouldn’t be an issue. I thought that maybe we would come here and Mrs Holmes wouldn’t care, that she’d be as welcoming in person as she was over the phone the few times we talked. But I guess that instinct really does drive the born werewolf, at least in this case.”

“Jesus,” John muttered. “Suddenly I wish that Sherlock _had_ made up a case in France.”

Greg choked on a laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that. I might be jumping to conclusions,” he said, though his tone made it clear he didn’t really think that was the case. “Come on. We might as well go in. Can’t stand out here forever.”

One step into the Holmes house – well, John was calling it a house but it was really more of a mansion – made it clear just how much wealth Mycroft and Sherlock had come from. They followed the sound of soft voices and emerged into a parlour, where Violet, Mycroft and Sherlock were all standing around a table. Violet glanced at them as they entered and said, “Here you are. Come, sit.”

John ended up sitting next to Sherlock on a low, wide sofa that was just large enough to accommodate the two of them. Sherlock was deliciously warm, his thigh pressed against John’s, and he wanted to lean into that warmth. Might have, were it not for Violet’s eye on him and Greg’s comment about approval going through his mind. Sherlock seemed to be relaxed, but John felt as tense as though they had entered enemy territory. He did his best to appear at ease as he was handed a cup of tea and offered a biscuit. He declined, even though he was hungry, ignoring the puzzled look that came from his mate.

“So John,” Violet said once they had all been served. “I understand you were an army doctor.”

“Yes, I was,” John said. 

“And now you serve as an assistant for my son and his… work.” There was a curious bite to her words, and Sherlock stiffened. John glanced at him.

“Sherlock’s really good at what he does,” he said. “Even though I haven’t been helping him out for that long, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing. I don’t think I could ever get tired of seeing how he handles a crime scene.”

“Is that why you got a job at a human surgery?” Violet asked.

He blinked at her, a little astonished by her question. What was she trying to get at? “Getting a job at the surgery doesn’t mean I’ll stop helping Sherlock. I just felt like I needed to have something outside of the house for those days when we didn’t have any cases.” Because, as much as he loved Sherlock, on those days John was tempted to kill him and put them both out of their misery.

“I see. And do you think you’ll continue being a detective inspector now that you're, Greg?”

Greg paused just before biting into a biscuit. “Yeah, of course I will.”

“Mummy,” Mycroft said calmly. “You already knew that Sherlock and I had not found traditional mates. There is no expectation for Greg or John to want to stay at home all the time and play mother.” He smiled at Greg, a surprisingly intimate smile given the setting. “I, for one, would not want to confine my mate to the flat. I can’t imagine anything changing about the way we currently live our life, and I know that Sherlock feels the same way.”

“Yes,” Violet said, her mouth pursing. “I understand I won’t be getting grandchildren.”

John choked on his tea and went into a fit of coughing. “C-children?” he sputtered.

“I’ve long harboured hopes that my sons would settle down with a nice beta and give me grandchildren,” Violet said like it should have been obvious. “I have no idea why you would insist on sterile omegas, honestly. And then to not even consider the idea of adoption!”

There wasn’t enough air in the room, John thought. He’d come here worried that he’d be pressured into a bonding ceremony, and it seemed like that was the least of his worries: Violet Holmes was apparently not pleased with the mates that her son had chosen. She was going out of her way to make sure that Greg and John felt unwelcome, _unworthy_. He wondered with an increasing feeling of dread what the next week was going to be like and, not for the first time, wished he’d listened to Sherlock back when they had the chance to bow out gracefully. Now they were stuck here unless he wanted Violet to dislike him even more by taking Sherlock away. Wonderful.


	4. Chapter 4

John did his best to endure the hideously awkward "snack" that seemed to go on for far longer than was truly necessary, Violet lingering over the last of her tea until even Mycroft began to fidget. Only then did she regretfully drain the last of the by now cold liquid and rise to her feet, making an apologetic excuse about a phone call that she had to make, and vanish from the room. He couldn't say that he was sorry to see her go, and it was hard not to notice the relief that flashed across Greg's face when the door swung shut and the four of them were alone.

He was too polite to say thank god out loud, but it was a near thing. Instead he glanced over at Sherlock, half hoping that the man would leap to his feet and declare that the past two hours had fulfilled their obligation and so he and John would now be leaving. This time, there would definitely be no objection on John's part. But if anything, the nervous energy that had been making Sherlock increasingly twitchy over the past couple of weeks had finally vanished. He was annoyingly relaxed.

And unfortunately that meant John couldn't suggest they leave, either. Not after all the times Sherlock had tried to weasel out of it and John had insisted on their coming. For all of Sherlock's insistence that he disliked his childhood home and had no desire to ever return there, Violet's attention had been good for him. Even the subtle little digs about Sherlock's detective work had not been enough to put him off. Sherlock wouldn't want to go. John closed his eyes, resigned to the fact that this was going to be an extremely long week.

Unsurprisingly, it was Mycroft who finally broke the silence. "Well now, I think that went quite well."

John's eyes flew open and he shot Mycroft an incredulous look, wondering whether the two of them had just sat through the same snack. Because as far as John was concerned, that had been the epitome of awkward. Granted, Violet had been subtle in how she ignored John and Greg, purposely speaking of topics that invited the two of them to remain silent but which wouldn't pique the notice of her sons. And whenever either of them did speak, she would either ignore them outright or endeavour to change subjects as quickly as she could - but she did it in a way that made it seem natural.

Frankly John was beginning to wonder if he'd read the situation wrong. One look at Greg's face, however, suggested that he hadn't. Greg said through gritted teeth, "That did not go _well_ , Mycroft. Why didn't you tell me that your mother would be upset about not having grandchildren?"

"She'll get over it," Mycroft replied, clearly surprised. "Honestly, Gregory, my mother has known for a long time now that neither Sherlock or I were interested in procreating. The medical procedure to make a changed male omega pregnant is both invasive and dangerous with a high level of risk to both parent and child, and it would only be an option if we desperately wanted kids. There is always the possibility of adopting, of course, but we don't want children. She knows that."

Except didn't sound like she had accepted it, John thought tiredly. "Perhaps you should try explaining that to her again," he said, and it came out flatly enough that Sherlock sat up and looked at him. He and Sherlock had never discussed having children before they bonded, mostly because John hadn't stopped to consider that they might need to. The life that the two of them lived was not at all suited to kids, and hearing that this was not just an option but an _expectation_ was a bit jarring.

Mycroft was frowning and looked like he might want to pursue the topic, but Greg didn't give him the chance. He got up. "I need to get something out of my luggage," he said. "Can you show me where our room is?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft stood up and so did John, and then a reluctant Sherlock rose as well because he didn't want to be left behind. All four of them proceeded out of the room and up the stairs. The place seemed like it was never-ending, each turn presenting new corridors that looked identical. 

"Don't tell me she put us in our old bedrooms," Sherlock grumbled.

"Mummy had the beds replaced, Sherlock," said Mycroft, finally stopping in front of a door. He pushed it open and surveyed what was inside, his eyebrows drawing together. "It seems that your luggage isn't here yet, John. Let me -" He moved across the hall and down two doors, opening that door. He stood there for a moment, and then he said, "I'll go have a word with Matthew."

"Let me guess, our luggage mysteriously ended up somewhere else," Greg said.

"An oversight, I'm sure." In spite of that _Mycroft_ didn't look very sure, and judging by the pinched expression he was wearing he was going to have more than one word with Matthew - whoever that was, John didn't know or care. He rubbed his forehead as Mycroft strode back down the hall before turning to walk into Sherlock's bedroom.

It wasn't what he had been expecting. Sherlock's bedroom at the flat was fairly neat, all things considered, but this room was verging on the side of being too orderly. Even the books on the bookcase had been straightened with ramrod precision, and the sheets on the bed would have held up to an inspection by even the sternest of John's old army majors. The only thing that looked out of place was Sherlock's suitcase, which had been placed at the edge of the bed and had various stains of unknowable origin.

"She had more than just the beds replaced," Sherlock observed. John glanced over his shoulder, realizing that Sherlock had entered and shut the door behind him. He wasn't sure where Greg had ended up. Sherlock pushed off of the door and strolled further into the room, eyeing the shelves with a look of distaste. "She better not have thrown out any of my books, some of those were still useful."

"You have enough books back at the flat," said John, turning his head away to inspect a picture of what must have been Sherlock and Mycroft as children. He had just enough time to take in the surprisingly long curls that Sherlock had worn before there was movement behind him, the air changing, and hands landed on his shoulders. He went along with it instead of trying to get away, allowing Sherlock to spin him around, though he wasn't expecting to be pushed backwards until his legs made contact with the bed. He sat down automatically and Sherlock kept right on pushing, until John was flat on his back with Sherlock straddling his waist.

Sherlock leaned over him, knees sinking deeply into the mattress, hands now braced against John's shoulders as leverage to hold him down. He said, "You were unnerved by the realization that your family had been invited. It left you feeling off balance and uncertain and doing a poor job of covering it up. Ever since we arrived at the mansion, it's been getting progressively worse." He studied John's face briefly before adding, "You're concerned that Mummy won't accept you as my mate, and you think... _oh_."

There was something about that little sound that made John's heart ache. He wanted to look away from Sherlock's face, but the man was so bloody close that it was impossible. Sherlock so rarely showed hurt to anyone and to it painted across his face now was awful. "Sherlock -"

"I would never replace you, John. No matter what my mother or anyone else says. Certainly not for something as ridiculous as having children."

John sighed. "It's not ridiculous," he said, but he couldn't deny that what Sherlock was saying made him feel a little better. He knew it was silly, of course he did: Sherlock had proven during the whole disaster with Moriarty and the serum that John was the one he wanted as a mate. There was no reason to think that would have changed. Still, hearing confirmation of that fact didn't hurt. 

"Yes it is. I don't want kids. If you'll recall, the first time we had sex while you were on your heat I insisted on you taking additional precautions _against_ you getting pregnant until we could make sure that it couldn't happen."

Yes, he did remember that. Sort of. Moments of heat ran together, blurring into images of lust that never failed to make his blood run hot when he thought about them. John squirmed, relieved that Sherlock was sitting high enough that his weight wasn't resting directly over a certain area. "We never talked about it, though."

"I deduced that you were not interested in children, either. I assumed you understood I felt the same way."

"I did, until your mother started talking about it."

"Mummy has always expressed a desire for grandchildren, but given time she will come to accept that it's not going to happen." Sherlock's mouth settled into that stubborn line that meant he was not going to budge. It was not normally a look John was overly fond of, but in this case he was pleased to see it.

"Alright," he said. "You win. Now get off."

"I think not," Sherlock said decisively, and then he shifted down and to the right just a little - 

"Get off," John repeated through gritted teeth, not sure if he should resent how quickly Sherlock could have an effect on him.

"But John, you could help me break in the new bed." Eyes wide with innocence, Sherlock leaned down until their faces were in closer proximity. "Everyone's preoccupied. We don't have to be anywhere until dinner. This room hasn't been used in years, it barely smells like me anymore. Wouldn't you prefer it to smell like _us_?"


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft’s room was exactly what Greg would have expected had he bothered to try imagining his lover's childhood room. Neat, almost obsessively so, and very impersonal, to the point where you might’ve thought that it was nothing more than extra space. There was nothing about the room to suggest that someone had grown up here and still came back, on occasion, to visit. The only suggestion of anything intimate was in the framed photograph of Sherlock and Mycroft as children that had been hung on the wall above the bed, and considering that this was the Holmes mansion that wasn’t saying much.

For lack of anything better to do he walked over to the picture to get a better look. They were surprisingly young in this one; most of the childhood photos Mycroft had shown him were older. Sherlock was a toddler with long curls, standing on chubby legs that were clearly unsteady, one small hand wrapped around his big brother’s waistcoat. Mycroft had one hand hidden by his side and the other on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was a gesture that might have been meant merely as a guide, but there was a hint of possessiveness in that grip. 

Their _expressions_ , though. Sombre and accusing, like the person who’d snapped the picture was an outsider trying to sneak a peek into their world – and an unwelcome outsider, at that. It made Greg feel a little guilty just for studying the photograph, even though he had technically become a part of that world some time ago. He’d often wondered what the Holmes had been like as children, whether Mycroft had been as adept at fitting in then as he was now. Sherlock would have struggled, prickly and unthinking bastard that he could be, but for the first time he thought maybe Mycroft might have had a difficult time too.

A hint of a footstep behind him was the only warning he got before familiar arms wound around his waist, drawing him back against an equally familiar body. “I dislike that picture,” Mycroft admitted quietly, like saying it out loud was a form of weakness. Knowing him, it probably was. “But every time I take it down, Mummy hangs it back up. She says it’s one of the few she has where Sherlock and I aren’t fighting.”

“Well, you’re not fighting each other,” said Greg without thinking, and the arms around him tightened slightly in surprise. He went on, “It’s a nice photo, but I think I prefer the one from your tenth birthday.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh, breath warm against the back of Greg’s neck and provoking a pleasant little shiver. “Do not ever tell Sherlock I showed you that,” he said, sounding far too amused for it to be a proper admonishment. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It’s cute!” Greg protested, grinning. “I should show it to John some time.” 

The grip on his waist loosened as Mycroft’s hands slipped away to find new purchase on his hips, and then he was being spun around. “If that is the case, perhaps I should give you incentive to keep it a secret.” His voice came out low with a husky note that never failed to make Greg’s heart beat faster. “I noticed when I walked by their room that my brother and John are occupied. For once, I think that Sherlock has the right idea.”

“What, you want to get started on kids?” He meant it as a joke, but he knew as soon as it came out that the air of joviality he’d been trying for was not there. The developing sexual musk to Mycroft’s scent vanished as effectively as if he’d snuffed out the candle and Greg sighed. “I – no, Jesus, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I’m sorry.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said honestly. “I just – I guess I feel a little blindsided, that’s all. I thought this week was going to be… different.” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated with his inability to explain. Mycroft and Sherlock were so protective of their mother, and it was only the first day. Surely things would get better when she got the chance to know him and John? 

“I realize that I should have asked about your family,” said Mycroft. “I apologize, I didn’t realize it would make you and John uncomfortable. If I could take the invitation back, I would.” 

He did sound genuinely apologetic and Greg softened a little. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not, but I appreciate you saying that. And I should have warned you about Mummy, that she would try to blindside you with remarks about children. Sherlock and I have been dealing with her and her unending desire for grandchildren for so long that I forget how difficult it can be for someone who isn’t used to her to tolerate it.” The hands on his hips moved, sliding beneath the waistband of his jeans and boxers. Mycroft squeezed his find gently, kneading at the flesh, watching Greg’s face closely. “I’d enjoy having the opportunity to begin making it up to you.”

“I only hope you’re not going to make it up to John like this,” Greg said, and Mycroft laughed. 

“Sherlock would kill me,” he said, right before he tipped his head down and took Greg’s mouth in a hungry kiss. Greg sank into the kiss, gladly parting his lips and meeting the intruding tongue with a greedy little moan that made Mycroft growl deep in his chest. Without warning he lifted Greg right off of the ground and spun, shoving Greg back against the wall.

“Mycroft!” Greg gasped, shocked to find himself pinned so thoroughly. He knew that his lover was incredibly strong: that was natural for all werewolves, particularly born ones. But this was the first time that Mycroft had been willing to include his strength in the bedroom, and it was incredibly _hot_. His thighs were splayed wide open by Mycroft’s body, and his feet weren’t even touching the ground. His only options were to slide his legs around Mycroft’s waist or let them hang there helplessly.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Mycroft murmured, and it was almost like he was speaking to himself even though their faces were scant inches away. “How I came to be so fortunate as to find you, Gregory.” With the hand not cupping Greg’s arse, he was fumbling with their buckles and zips in an effort to get them open.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Greg said, dizzy with arousal already and they’d barely even started. He flexed his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, grunting at the fleeting sensation of fingers brushing against his erection. Because of how they were positioned, there was no way to get all of their clothing off without moving. There was something delicious about doing it this way, something heady that made his blood pound. He arched his back, unable to contain a pleading mewl when Mycroft finally took him in hand.

“Shh, just enjoy it.” Mycroft was stroking him torturously slowly, never once taking his eyes away from Greg. It was unnerving to be looked at like that, to know that his every desire was being stripped bare for Mycroft’s perusal – probably before Greg himself even knew about them. He groaned again, this time in protest, when Mycroft’s hand left off briefly. The delay turned out to be worthwhile, however, when his fingers returned coated in a sticky clear gel.

“Do you – Christ – carry lube in your _pocket_?” 

"It never hurts to be prepared." There was a faint smirk lingering at the corner of Mycroft's mouth as he shifted a little closer and hefted Greg's weight higher; the change, small though it was, allowed him to bring their cocks together and wrap his hand around both. A soft sound came from him, his eyes fluttering shut, at the contact, the first sign that he was actually affected by what was happening.

Greg wanted to see more. It wasn't very often that he got the chance to see Mycroft like this, indulging himself, and he planned to take full advantage of it. Trusting that his alpha would not let him fall, he let his hands slide down Mycroft's throat and chest where he attacked the crisp white shirt that Mycroft still wore. The buttons were small and finicky and he huffed with frustration, finally snapping several off in his haste to reveal the firm chest and a spattering of ginger hair. Roughly, he rubbed his thumbs over Mycroft's nipples.

Instead of the reprimand Mycroft had no doubt intended on, a moan came out. It was a deep, sensuous noise that immediately pushed Greg that much closer to the edge. He found himself panting for breath, hardly able to focus between the delightful pressure on his cock and the steady stream of sounds emerging from his sensitive lover. For a moment it was impossible to tell which of them would come first, but then Greg squirmed helplessly as Mycroft's other hand tightened around his arse, fingers sliding between to nudge against his entrance. 

He came hard, lips parting in a soundless cry as he trembled, unconsciously pressing that much harder against his targets. Mycroft shuddered and groaned, lowering them to the ground with incredible control even as he shuddered through his own orgasm. Even in the middle of passion, he would never allow harm to come to his omega and so it was that they hit the ground gently. Greg leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply, and couldn't resist tilting his head up for another messy kiss.

"That was cheating," he said once he'd caught his breath.

Mycroft's smirk was genuine this time. "It's not cheating if you're the one who makes the rules."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's weight on top of him was comforting, a feeling that John had long since grown accustomed to because apparently on certain nights Sherlock couldn't sleep unless he was sprawled on top of his omega. He squirmed around with no help whatsoever from his lazy alpha until their hips were in alignment. Deliberately he arched his back, watching with fascination as Sherlock's breath hitched and his eyes began to grow dark. John smirked up at him and did it a second time, gritting his teeth to control his own instinctive gasp at the little sparks of pleasure.

"Sure you want do this where anyone could walk in?" he asked, letting one hand trail thoughtfully down the curve of Sherlock's spine. It was a question he deliberately posed in a light-hearted voice, though he didn't think for one second that Sherlock missed what he was really asking. 

"If you're asking if I want to abstain from sex for the week that we're here, the answer is no." Sherlock gripped the bottom of his shirt and pushed it up, exposing John's chest to his hungry gaze. His fingers found already stiffening nipples and pinched, hard enough to sting. John bit back a yelp. Sherlock smirked. "My mother is old enough to know what happens between two perfectly consenting mates, John."

"That's the way to get me in the mood, mentioning your mum," John muttered with a roll of his eyes. Another pinch made him suck in a sharp breath. Sherlock got like this sometimes, rough and impatient, and he could never deny that he enjoyed it thoroughly. There was something satisfying in not being treated like he was fragile glass. He wasn't going to break, no more so than he already had, and Sherlock knew that. Knew it, and used it ruthlessly to his advantage. 

"Allow me, then." Rising up just enough to take the bulk of his weight off, Sherlock moved his hands down to John's hips and flipped him over. John grunted but let the pressure at his waist guide him up onto his hands and knees, didn't protest the familiar fingers attacking his belt buckle and dragging his jeans down. It wasn't the first time his arse had been bared to Sherlock and he doubted it would be the last, but he still felt that same old flicker of conflicting emotion that amplified it all: knowing how vulnerable he was like this made him want more at the same time that it made him want to hide. 

Hot breath ghosting over his spine jerked him out of his head, right before lips pressed against his flesh followed by a warm tongue. He shivered as Sherlock slid down lower, obediently parting his legs when a hand nudged at his inner thigh. His cock was already full and heavy with anticipation and he squeezed his hands into fists to keep from reaching for it at the first swipe of that tongue right where he wanted it most. For once Sherlock did not tease, pressing as deep as he could with a lewd smacking sound.

It was filthy and overwhelming and John pressed his face into the cool pillow, knowing that his cheeks were burning. They hadn't done this often, but Sherlock had no qualms about expressing in great detail how much he enjoyed knowing that John could come from his tongue alone. Sometimes it could take hours, just the two of them, with Sherlock's hands pinning him down and keeping from moving away as he slowly worked John open until both of them were soaked and John was sobbing from the sheer overwhelming _need_.

He felt that way now, the rush in his blood that made him ache for more pressure, more fullness, that the clever tongue inside of him couldn't provide. He dugs his nails into the sheets and whimpered when Sherlock nipped him on his right buttock, the slight burn immediately soothed by damp heat. He clenched around nothing, loose and open and wet, and felt Sherlock's mouth spreading into a smile. 

"Bastard," John said into the pillow, knowing that Sherlock would be able to hear it anyway, and felt more than heard his mate chuckle. 

"Patience," Sherlock whispered, tipping his head up and breathing deeply. Without thinking John did the same, inhaling the raw scent flooding the room and realizing that Sherlock had certainly accomplished his goal. They reeked of sex, and anyone who walked in would know exactly what they'd been doing. The thought of Violet's horrified expression were she to enter shouldn't have been so satisfying, but it was. He groaned again and reached for his prick.

He was half expecting Sherlock to knock his hand away, but instead Sherlock made a deep sound in his chest that radiated approval and ducked back to his task. John rocked forward at the reappearance of that tongue, gasping raggedly. His fingers closed around his erection and began to pull, slow at first but quickening fast, his balls drawing up tight against his body at the dual sensations. Sherlock purred and licked harder, flattening his tongue and moving up slow from the bottom to the top, because he knew exactly what that did to John.

"Oh fuck," John said and shuddered, come splattering the bed between his thighs. Sherlock breathed out against him, a flash of chill that made him shiver, before straightening up until he was leaning over his omega. John heard the sound of a zip being pulled down and then wet, sloppy sounds. He didn't need to look to know that Sherlock was jerking off, but he did anyway. He knew Sherlock liked to look at him.

Sherlock was quiet when he came as soon as their eyes met, gritting his teeth to keep from making any sounds, and the feeling of heat on John's thighs and arse and lower back was not unexpected. He sighed and turned back around, lowering himself to the bed and scooting over a little so that he wasn't lying directly in the wet spot he'd just made. His knees ached a little even though the mattress was comfortable, and it felt nice to lay down for a minute.

He said, "Go get something to clean up."

"No." A hand touched his back, splayed wide, and began to rub. Anyone else might've taken it as a massage, the action of an alpha trying to take care of an omega after a bout of sex that, while having started in a stressful way and not having lasted particularly long, had left them both feeling satisfied.

John, on the other hand, shook his head because he knew exactly what Sherlock was doing, the bloody man wasn't even _trying_ to be subtle about this anymore. He still remembered the first time Sherlock had rubbed his semen into John's skin, a warning sign for anyone who might get close enough to back off. Now that they were mated there was really no point to it, but Sherlock could be a possessive bastard like that when he wanted to be. If it weren't for the look he always wore, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed in concentration and two seconds away from sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth like a child, John might've knocked him away.

"Again?" he said wearily, hoping that the indulgent smile he knew was painted across his face wasn't bleeding into his voice.

"You don't smell enough like me," Sherlock said primly and got off the bed, surprisingly agile considering that he usually needed a few minutes after an orgasm. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Apparently I'm not invited," John said to the empty room, amused in spite of himself. He sat up and reached a curious hand around, realizing that Sherlock had done a thorough job of rubbing everything in. If they'd been at home he might've actually left the drying patch, itchy though it would become: it would've been worth it for the way Sherlock always grew increasingly distracted during the evening before he finally gave up and tackled John against whatever the nearest surface was. 

In this case, he didn't think it was wise to rub the situation into Violet's face any more than they already had. Ignoring Sherlock's grumbling, which was clearly audible over the water, he washed as best he could in the sink and then got dressed again. Just as he was inspecting his shirt to see if Sherlock had torn any of the buttons off, he heard a knock at the door. He might not have opened it at all but for the familiar, nervous scent already seeping around the cracks.

"Been busy?" Greg said, wrinkling his nose.

"I could just leave you out there on your own, you know," John said mildly, not bothering to point out that he could tell Mycroft and Greg had been having some fun of their own.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Mycroft told me I could take a look around the house if I wanted. If you're not busy -"

John glanced over his shoulder. The water had yet to shut off. Sherlock was sulking. It only took about three seconds for him to decide that he'd much rather play tourist with Greg then try to coax Sherlock out, particularly when he suspected that the latter would only end up in him going downstairs covered in more semen. He stepped out into the corridor and pulled his shirt on, letting the door swing shut behind him. "Sounds good to me."


	7. Chapter 7

It was late and the morgue was quiet, but that had never bothered Molly before. Sometimes it was nice to be alone, to know that she would be able to get as much or as little work done as she pleased with no colleagues trying to hamper her progress. She could spend several hours during the day doing nothing, wandering from task to task and never completing a single one, until the rest of the hall began to clear out and she was left in blissful silence. Only then did she really fall into her element, and more than one supervisor had remarked on how accomplished she could be ‘when she put her mind to it’.

That was before, though. Before Molly received a better and more thorough education on the kinds of men and women that were out there in the world, before she knew just how close to home they could hit without her knowing until it was (almost) too late. It didn’t prevent her from staying behind when the rest of her colleagues fled the building, but it did make her more cautious about locking doors. Paranoid, a few of her more malevolent co-workers would have suggested, and she knew they’d laugh at the way she twitched at every sound. 

She used to stay until late in the evening but now she made it a point to pack up and leave before the sun went down, unless she was tired like today. It was only half past six and, while it wouldn’t be dark for a while yet, she was ready to go home. She turned the faucet on and ran the hot water over her hands, scrubbing carefully with the harsh soap that sometimes left her skin dry and cracking. It left a sticky residue and a bitter scent behind, but it was not so overpowering that she couldn’t smell the newest arrival into the morgue.

Molly relaxed, blushing slightly, as she switched the water off and picked up a towel. “I told you, you don’t have to come and pick me up every time you’re in town,” she said shyly, already knowing who she would see when she turned around: glossy dark hair spilling freely over bare shoulders and a soft smile that never ceased to make Molly’s heart skip a beat.

“You know what they say about a mouse when the boss is away,” Jane replied, wiggling her eyebrows. Her ever-present Blackberry was clutched in her hand, though all of her attention was focused on Molly. “You’re nervous tonight.”

“As though you could ever be a mouse,” Molly said, deciding to ignore the latter comment. Though she doubted Jane would forget about it. Known as “Anthea” outside of a select group of people, Jane was the sort of woman who could strike fear into the heart of anyone she selected – and do it without ever breaking a sweat, much less one of her perfectly manicured nails. There was a reason she had been the assistant of Mycroft Holmes for the past several years, and it had little to do with her organizational skills.

Jane looked briefly curious but allowed the subject to change, adopting a playful grin. “You’re right. At the moment I feel more like a dog waiting to be called in to rescue its puppy.”

Molly laughed outright. “Oh Jane, that’s mean.”

“It’s the truth. All men are the same: they can take on the world, but one little week with their mothers and their mates will send them into a tailspin.” In spite of her words, her voice was filled with affection. “I estimate another day, _maybe_ two, before I get a call from Mycroft or Greg. Possibly both.”

“You really think it will be that bad?”

“I know it will,” Jane said, so confidently that Molly started to get worried. “You don’t know Mrs Holmes. I’ve only met her a couple of times and that was more than enough for me. Every time I see her she manages to make at least one comment on how beautiful my children will be. She’s been dropping hints for ages that Mycroft should take me as a mate and cement his place at the head of the pack.” She shrugged. “I don’t imagine she’ll take kindly to Greg or John.”

“But they’re omegas!”

“ _Sterile_ omegas,” Jane corrected her kindly. “You know that officially omegas are supposed to be the epitome of perfection for werewolves. But for some people, the idea of an omega isn’t good enough. Mrs Holmes would far rather her children settle down with betas who can reproduce than omegas who can’t.” She smirked. “I think she’s got her heart set on omega grandchildren, actually.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Molly said, bristling with indignation. She didn’t know Mycroft Holmes that well, but Sherlock had become a completely different person since meeting John. It wasn’t even that he smiled more, but that what smiles he did give were far more genuine. Considering everything that they had gone through over the past few months, it was cruel to think that someone might try to cause even more trouble and all for the sake of a few kids she didn’t think Sherlock or John were interested in having.

“That’s just the way some of them think, and since Mrs Holmes is an alpha she thinks she should still get a say in who her children are bonded with.”

Molly paused in the middle of pulling on her jacket. “You don’t think…”

Jane’s dark eyes were apologetic. “I have my suspicions.”

“Jesus.” Molly leaned against the table, dizzy. She’d heard stories about bonded werewolves that ended up separated for a variety of reasons. The bond never went away, never faded or broke, and the werewolves would just pretend it didn’t exist. Ignore it. Have a bonding ceremony with someone else, even if a new bond couldn’t really form: not unless it was forced, and that was excruciatingly painful for all involved. She shook her head in denial. “They would never let that happen, though. Sherlock and John love each other and so do Mycroft and Greg.”

“Yes, they do,” Jane said quietly, and Molly heard what she didn’t say: that Mrs Holmes might not care about love or bonds. “But you can see why I’m anticipating a call.”

“I almost hope you do get one after hearing that,” Molly said, zipping her jacket up. “Then you can go sweep them out of there and bring them back home. I happen to have it on good authority that you’re excellent at rescuing damsels who are in distress.”

Shoulders shaking with laughter, Jane reached out and brushed the back of her palm against Molly’s cheek. “You were hardly in distress when I found you,” she remarked, remembering how completely in control of the situation Molly had been. “Five more minutes and you would’ve had those idiots fighting to be the first to get you out of the building.”

Molly blushed again at the admiration in Jane’s voice and shifted closer, shyly asking for a kiss that Jane granted. It was soft and slow, the perfect end to what had been a very long day. She let one of her hands come to rest on Jane’s hip, unable to resist stroking her thumb against the sliver of skin she could touch. “Well, since you’re not doing anything until you get a call, do you want to come over tonight?”

“Yes,” Jane said without hesitation. Molly waited for her to add a reason why she couldn’t – Jane was busy and in enough of a demand even when Mycroft was in the city - but Jane just squeezed her hand and nodded. Grinning broadly, Molly led the way out of the morgue.

\--

Sherlock was not surprised to find that the room was empty when he finally climbed out of the shower. Over the powerful smell of sex and mating, he could make out a faint trace of Lestrade’s scent over by the door. He dried and dressed quickly, wondering where the two of them had gone. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if Mummy had gone ahead and decided that she wanted to speak to them privately, and that was the last thing Sherlock needed. John was uncertain enough about being here without a private ‘talk’ from Mummy doing further damage.

He was buttoning his shirt when the door opened behind him. His fingers stilled as a familiar scent, one that he had not been around in years, drifted towards him: leather and musk, make-up and vanilla. His skin prickled at the sensation of eyes on his back and he exhaled shortly. “Irene.”

“Hello, Sherlock,” Irene Adler said with a smirk. “My, you _have_ grown.”

It was tempting to ignore her presence, but experience had taught him Irene would persist until she was acknowledged. “I don’t recall extending an invitation for you to be here.”

“You didn’t.”

“Mummy,” Sherlock muttered, and Irene laughed.

“Indeed. She seems to think that we would complement each other perfectly and make lovely children.” Irene left the doorway, stepping closer. She was poured into a burgundy dress that hinted at more than it revealed. Unusual for her. She put her hand on his chest, cold fingers sliding between buttons to the flesh underneath. “What about you, Sherlock? What do you think?”


	8. Chapter 8

Irene's question hung in the air, inviting the sort of answer that Sherlock was never going to give her. But their history was complicated at best, and he knew that if he responded incorrectly it could cause a lot of difficulty later on depending on whether or not Irene was feeling spiteful. He paused for a moment, unimpressed by the feel of her hand against his chest, and finally reached up to grip her gently but firmly by the wrist. "I think that it's time you learned to keep your hands off someone who is bonded."

She laughed. "Usually that's the last thing I hear from a man," she said with a smirk, but when he released her hand she took a small step back. There still wasn't much space between them, but it was a little more than before. "Come now, sweetheart, surely you don't think that I'm going to let you get away that easily. I told you once that I would have you until you begged me for mercy. Twice." Her lips parted and she ran her tongue over her plump lower lip, holding his gaze in a way that was no doubt meant to be sensuous. "I'm a very resourceful woman, Sherlock. I always get what I want."

"Until now," Sherlock said, finishing the buttons on his shirt and reaching for his suit jacket. He knew that it wouldn't make much difference to point out that he wouldn't have been interested in Irene even without John. She was a gorgeous woman and there had been something between them once, but not anymore. Irene would not understand that. She was convinced that she knew what every man - and some women, for that matter - needed, and Sherlock was no exception. He made to step lightly around her, wholly unsurprised when she turned sharply and drove her elbow into his midsection. He froze and she chuckled, her sweet breath wafting across his face.

"Your mother wants this," she murmured, low and throaty, and in spite of himself he felt a small spark of arousal at the gleam in her eyes. "You can't tell me that you haven't wondered. You wouldn't need to give up your little detective business. I certainly won't be giving up my fun."

"Considering that nothing will ever happen between us, I wouldn't expect you to." Sherlock pushed past her the rest of the way and escaped the room before she could respond. His ribs were aching and he knew he'd have a bruise later on. It certainly wasn't the most eloquent exchange he'd ever had with Irene, but he could admit - if only to himself - that her presence here had blindsided him. He hadn't expected Mummy to dig that far back into his past. It was enough to make him wonder what else he and Mycroft might have missed.

He proceeded down the steps and encountered John and Lestrade standing just outside the kitchen. Both men turned to look at him as he approached, and John raised an eyebrow. "Are you... wearing perfume?"

"No,” Sherlock muttered. 

"But she is," Lestrade finished, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't turn around, just kept watching the expression on John's face when he caught sight of Irene for the first time. It was enough to make him wish that he'd locked Irene in the room and thrown away the key, their luggage be damned. It didn't help that she slowed down just enough to cast Sherlock a flirtatious smile as she sashayed past.

"Who was that?" John asked as soon as Irene was out of sight, trying hard for an even tone.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock said. "An old... friend of mine."

"And by friend, you mean..."

"She was to me as that woman was to Mycroft," Sherlock said, feeling a growing urge to bang his head against the wall until he succumbed to unconsciousness. That would have to be better than this. 

Lestrade spun around to see who Sherlock was talking about. The woman standing in the doorway of the mansion was, to put it bluntly, lovely. She had reddish blond hair tied off in a high ponytail and a creamy complexion, all of which was strongly emphasized by the midnight blue dress she wore. Unlike Irene's gown this one merely hinted at curves, but that somehow made the whole picture seem even more appealing. Her smile was small and coy and only gained a flash of the danger Irene was so well known for when Mycroft walked into the corridor from the opposite side. Seeing her, he stopped short. Sherlock might have enjoyed his brother's clearly displayed shock at any other time; as it was he merely felt his level of frustration rising.

"Who is _that_?" John demanded.

"Kate Halstead," Sherlock muttered. 

"Mycroft!" Kate exclaimed at the same time, approaching the stunned man quickly. "How lovely to see you at last, your mother's been promising me for the past several days that you'd be coming but I was beginning to think you'd never arrive." She kissed him on the cheek, lingering several seconds longer than she really should have. Lestrade went tense.

"Kate," Mycroft said, doing a poor job of recovering. Sherlock only hoped he hadn't looked that stupid at seeing Irene for the first time.

"Yes," she said, beaming. "It's lovely to see you too, my dear. We really must catch up. It's been such a long time, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you ever since I heard you were coming." She leaned against him in a way that made it amply clear just how she'd been 'thinking' about him, and Sherlock decided it was time to intervene before Lestrade snapped.

"I need to speak to my brother," he said shortly, pushing between the two of them as he stormed into the office Mycroft had just emerged from. He hated to leave John and Lestrade out in the hall, but this was a conversation best held away from prying ears. "Privately."

"If you'll excuse me." Stepping back into the room, Mycroft closed the door in her face and then stood there for a moment, staring at it like he wasn't wholly certain that encounter had actually just occurred. 

"Mummy is behind this," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, not waiting for Mycroft to speak first. "Irene is here as well. She ambushed me upstairs and tried to convince me that she would have me again. Twice." Just saying it out loud was enough to make him grimace. He remembered all too well what Irene was like between the covers. She might have been a beta physically, but her attitude was purely alpha. Domineering and bossy to a fault, it had made for some truly interesting power struggles that he had little interest in experiencing again.

"I didn't believe she would lower herself this much," said Mycroft. He was beginning to look angry now. Sherlock did not know the full story, but he knew that Mycroft and Kate had not parted on the best of terms. Kate liked control, but she went about it differently than Irene did: she was more inclined to coax and seduce rather than come right out and demand. Her ways had not gone over well.

“Well, she has. Fix it.”

“Fix it?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “How? Do you want me to throw them out?”

“Yes!”

“I can’t do that and you know it,” came the weary response. “This isn’t my house. Mummy has the right to invite whoever she wants here.”

Sherlock glared at him, knowing that it was pointless because Mycroft was right. Though his brother was the head of the pack in London, when it came to their family Mummy was still very much the head – and she would be until such time that she either stepped aside or one of her children chose to challenge her for the position. But there was so much responsibility involved that Sherlock had never been interested, and Mycroft had set his sights considerably higher. Until now, separated as they were geographically from her interference, it wasn’t really an issue.

It had been a mistake to come here. From the moment the invitation had come Sherlock had known that, but he hadn’t expected to be proven right so quickly. It annoyed him that he hadn’t anticipated that she might do this. “Then we’ll leave.”

“Sherlock!” Throwing out a hand to block the door, Mycroft frowned even more heavily. “We can’t.”

“You can’t seriously want to stay here after –”

“Of course not,” Mycroft hissed, so vehement that Sherlock actually fell silent. “Given the option, I’d take the three of you and never come back. But if we do, you know that Mummy is going to see that as a sign of retreat. She’ll never accept Greg or John, and while at this point I don’t particularly either way if she does or not, worse yet she might follow us to London and keep up her campaign. Now, considering how she feels about your work, is that what you really want?”

“No,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft squared his shoulders and nodded once. “Then we have to be wise about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character Kate from _A Scandal in Belgavia_ doesn't have a last name, so I borrowed the surname of her actress.


	9. Chapter 9

Dinner was awkward at best, made worse by the fact that Irene and Kate both joined them and Mummy kept up her persistent efforts to block John and Greg from the conversation. John retired as quickly as he could afterwards, not caring if it looked less like strategic retreat and more cowardly and that Sherlock glared at him for it: he’d had about as much as he could handle of everything for the night. He meant to stay up long enough to wait for Sherlock so that they could talk, but the moment his head hit the pillow he was out.

He awoke some time later to the feel of the mattress shifting, sinking down as someone crawled into bed with him and scooted close enough that warmth pressed along his back. The room was pitch black and John sighed as Sherlock’s teeth fastened lightly over the nape of his neck, right where the mating mark was. There was no biting, no pressure, just a steady hold that relaxed them both. One large hand settled over his hip, rubbing in meaningless circles, and he fell back asleep to the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue sliding wetly across his skin. 

It was unfortunate that his second awakening was a lot less pleasant.

The door crashed opened, banging against the opposite wall, and someone shouted “Uncle Johnny!” and then the bed was sinking again. John grunted as small, knobbly knees crushed his sternum and opened his eyes to see the face of his niece less than a foot away. She was beaming, her blue eyes bright, as she started to bounce up and down.

“Devon,” John groaned, because as far as he knew there was only one little girl who called him that, lifting his hands and gripping her by the hips in an effort to stop the momentum. Sherlock rolled away from them and dragged a pillow over his head, and John felt the distance between them like a chill. He frowned sleepily. “What are you doing here?”

“I came with Mummy,” Devon said.

“But I thought…” John furrowed his brow, trying to get his sluggish mind to work. The last time he’d spoken to Harry, she’d been nearing the bottom of an aged bottle of scotch and the issue of custody had been pretty much non-existent. When Clara left she’d taken Devon with her and that was just the way it was, Harry hadn’t even tried to fight her on it. John hadn’t seen his niece in well over four years, not since she was a toddler. Definitely not since he’d returned home. He tried to figure out what Harry had been thinking in bringing Devon here, to a house of werewolves, and couldn’t.

“You look older than I remember. Mummy said you would. She said you’d found a boyfriend and that she was gonna tease you about it until you turned red and told her to piss off.”

“Devon!”

She giggled. “Is that your boyfriend, Uncle Johnny?”

Sherlock sighed and pulled the pillow off his head, squinting at her. He looked a wreck, curls tumbling haphazardly over his face and sleepy eyes half-lidded. “I am not his boyfriend, I am his _mate_.”

Devon cocked her head. “What’s a mate?”

“It’s like saying he’s my husband,” said John, deciding that it would be best to get up before Sherlock’s grumpy expression became considerably more vocal. Loathe as he was to leave the bed, he slipped out from under the covers and pulled a shirt and jeans on. Devon watched and then grinned when he reached for her, wrapping her sticky hands around his neck when he lifted her onto his hip. She was a good deal heavier now, and John realized he would’ve had difficulty lifting her had it not been for his additional strength.

Harry was just coming up the stairs as John stepped out of the room. She looked different, and it took him almost a minute to figure out that it was because her hair was neatly combed and she didn’t stink of liquor. Her smile was uneasy as she took in the two of them, but she spoke in a friendly enough voice. “Oh god, John, I’m sorry. She took off when I had my back turned to help Mum with the bags. I should’ve known she would’ve headed straight for you; she hasn’t shut up about seeing you since I mentioned it.”

“It’s fine.” He was grateful, actually, that he hadn’t slept through his family’s arrival. “Did you, ah, see another family pull up?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason. Here, you take Devon, I’ll be right down.” He waited until Harry had taken Devon and they were partway downstairs before he knocked on Greg’s and Mycroft’s door. It took a couple of minutes to get a response, but finally the door opened and Greg stood there blinking. 

“John? What’s wrong?”

“Your family’s here,” John said.

Greg blinked again and then groaned. “Oh shit. I was hoping I’d wake up to find this was a nightmare.”

“No such luck. Better get dressed, I’m heading down now.”

“Thanks,” Greg said with a sigh as he shut the door.

John hurried down the steps, heart pounding as he neared the bottom. He hadn’t seen his parents or Harry since before he’d left. The Centre had encouraged him to reach out to his family, suggesting that it might make the “transition” easier if he had loved ones to fall back on for support, but John had refused. He didn’t regret that choice. His father had always been a volatile ticking bomb, just waiting for a reason to go off, and Harry was proof enough that wasn’t a good position to be in. The thought of seeing them now was both exciting and frightening.

He slowed down as he heard the sound of familiar voices, stepping around the corner and pausing, unnoticed, to watch. Ormond Watson had an arm slung casually around his wife’s waist. He was looking around the mansion with a faint air of distaste, though he was – so far – keeping his composure. Harry was standing beside them, holding onto Devon’s hand. There were three other people in the room John didn’t recognize, but they all had a faint, underlying base scent that was similar to Greg. The oldest man noticed him first.

“And who might you be?” he demanded.

“John!” Anne cried, tugging away from her husband. She rushed over to him and hugged him tightly. John swallowed hard and hugged her back, overwhelmed by how _strong_ her familiar scent now was. It was like a kickback straight to childhood.

“Hi Mum,” he managed to say, letting go reluctantly when she drew back. She cupped his face and stared at him worriedly, and he gave her a crooked smile. “I’m fine, really.”

“That’s not what the letter said,” she fretted. “We haven’t seen or even heard from you in years, and then out of the blue we get an invitation like this. What were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me that you’d found someone you wanted to marry?”

“Anne, please, don’t baby him,” Ormond said. He nodded coolly. “John.”

“Dad.” John nodded back, relieved when his father made no move to try and embrace him. 

Ormond smiled unpleasantly. “At least you landed yourself a rich one.”

John’s jaw twitched. “Sherlock’s family has a fair amount of money, yes,” he said, not liking the insinuation. Money had very little to do with what existed between him and Sherlock. He caught sight of Harry rolling her eyes and suddenly felt a little warmer towards his sister.

Greg walked into the room then, and as his family converged on him John took the opportunity to slip away from his parents and move over to Harry. She raised an eyebrow at him and dipped her chin. “I do my best to make sure I don’t leave Devon alone with him,” she said, answering the unspoken question. “I don’t want her growing up thinking the way he does.”

“I’m surprised you brought her along,” John admitted. “Actually, no, I’m surprised you even came.”

Harry sighed. “Clara’s on her honeymoon.”

“What? Harry, I –”

“Don’t bother, I’ve heard it all before and I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve been staying with Mum and Dad and when Clara asked me to look after Devon while she was gone, I couldn’t say no.” She glanced over at Devon, who was standing with her grandparents now, and her face went soft in a way that John wasn’t expecting. “And then Mum got the invite for us to come here and she was so excited at the idea of having the family all together again…”

“Jesus,” John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. It was too early for this, but at least he knew why his father had even bothered to come. Anne Watson could be a fearsome woman when she wanted to be. “You don’t have to stay, you know.” He would understand if Harry was reluctant to have Devon around werewolves. Most humans would feel the same way.

“No, it’s okay. I want to spend time with you and get to know your – what was it?” Harry smiled. “Mate?”

John flushed. “She’s got your big mouth, that’s for sure.”

She laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: don't expect a chapter next week.


	10. Chapter 10

All things considered the introduction of Mycroft to his parents went fairly well for about the first five minutes. Mycroft was, of course, his usual charming self, and Greg could tell within a minute that his mother was in love – or at least, she would have been if it weren’t for the small niggling issue that both of his parents knew that Mycroft was a were wolf. Greg discovered that wonderful bit of news when Jack Lestrade seized him by the arm and roughly pulled him over to the side as soon as everyone else was distracted. Greg went with it, resigned, allowing his father to drag him out the door and into the hall even though he could have easily stopped him.

This confrontation was inevitable, and putting it off would only give Jack the opportunity to unload on someone else. He didn’t want Mycroft or Sherlock or even their mother to take the full brunt of Jack’s anger, and that was exactly what would end up happening. So he didn’t protest even when Jack swung him around, eyes dark with anger as he surveyed his son, just stood there and waited for the unpleasant deluge that was about to begin. Jack wasted no time.

“A werewolf?” he was hissing as soon as he considered them to be out of earshot. “Your mother and I taught you better than that, Gregory Lestrade. What the hell were you thinking, sacking up with one of those sons of bitches? I don’t care how much money it earns or how much influence it haves over London, that’s no reason to degrade yourself or put your life in danger! I am _extremely_ disappointed in you right now.”

“Dad, that’s enough.” Greg fought against the urge to wince at the pressure of the fingers digging into his upper arm. He’d have a set of bruises there later; his father was the sort of man who knew exactly how strong he was and never hesitated to make use of it when he felt it was necessary. The fingers tightened just a little more and he breathed out.

“Were you forced into this? Are you under some kind of mind control? Do you need help?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, aware that Mycroft could hear every word that was being said perfectly. He wrenched his arm out of Jack’s grip and backed up a step, putting a little space between them. “Dad, I wasn’t forced into anything. I chose this. I want to be with Mycroft. It’s not about money or influence, and he’s not dangerous – god, I put myself in worse danger every day with my job.” He shook his head. “I’m in _love_ with him.”

“He’s a werewolf,” said Jack, as though that was explanation enough – and the sad thing was, for him it probably was. “Did you know that?”

Greg snorted. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

“So if you weren’t forced or otherwise coerced into a relationship with him – and I’m not entirely certain I believe that - then please explain to me why you, a good, human, god-fearing man, thought it was a smart idea to begin dating one of those monsters,” Jack said in a quiet, deadly calm voice. It was a voice that never failed to send a chill down Greg’s spine, one of those holdovers from childhood that he really could have done without.

“He’s a good person,” Greg said quietly, knowing that even as he spoke the words were useless. Neither of his parents had ever made an effort to change their opinions about werewolves and he doubted that was going to change now, no matter how charming and sweet Mycroft could be. He looked his father squarely in the eyes. “I don’t care what you think. Mycroft is a good man and nothing would make me happier than for us to be married. It would be the icing on the cake to know that I had yours and Mum’s blessing, but –”

“Just answer me one question. Are you still human?”

“No.” The word was out of his mouth before Greg had even realized what he was about to say, and maybe that was why he didn’t see the blow coming: Jack had never struck him before, never struck anyone that Greg could remember, and so the clenched fist caught him in the right cheek, snapping his head to the side.

“Monster!” Jack snarled. Whatever else he might have been planning to say or do, he wasn’t given the opportunity. Mycroft was there between them before Greg even registered the hot pain in his cheek, slamming the man back against the wall in a show of uncharacteristic rage. Sherlock was right behind him, expression twisted into a fury that shocked Greg stupid. Silently he stared at the three of them, at the way Mycroft’s arm was pressed against Jack’s throat, at the careful pressure that Mycroft was exerting and how Jack squirmed uselessly, and had no idea how he was supposed to react.

“Jack!” 

The rest of them had followed, of course, and Marie Lestrade let out a worried cry when she saw the state her husband was in. She started to move forward to intervene, but Greg snapped out of his daze and automatically threw out an arm to stop her. He recognized the look in his mate’s eyes. The last time he’d seen that look, Jim Moriarty had been standing on the other side of it. He wasn’t even sure that Mycroft would stop for him right now, wasn’t sure he wanted to bother to try.

“If you ever,” Mycroft murmured, the words spoken quietly but with enough intent that they were clearly audible, “touch anyone in this house, much less my family, like that again, I will make you disappear.” And he didn’t say it like it was a threat, he said it like it was the honest to god truth. “Not just physically, but in every way that matters. Your life will be forfeit.”

Jack’s lips moved, but he didn’t have the breath to speak. His mouth was beginning to turn blue. Mycroft stayed there for a very long moment, making sure that his point had been made (or perhaps contemplating whether or not he wanted to go through with killing the man), before he backed off. Until that point Greg hadn’t noticed that his father’s feet had actually left the floor; Jack hit the ground and his legs nearly gave out, he only just remained standing. He straightened up slowly, his eyes sweeping the room, and slowly his face flushed a deep red from anger. 

“I’m not staying here in this house of filth,” he snapped.

“You weren’t particularly wanted in the first place,” Sherlock drawled, eyes snapping green. “I am curious to know, though, if your wife is aware of the two women you have on the side. Your secretary, is it? And your… youngest granddaughter’s baby-sitter.”

He froze and Marie went equally stiff behind Greg. “What?”

“I… that’s not – you… I didn’t…” Jack sputtered.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Marie said, all traces of warmth gone when she looked at her husband. Furious though she may have been, she didn’t give Greg a second glance as the two of them went out the door. And as it closed behind them, Greg was left feeling strangely bereft. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when his mother hadn’t fawned over him before they parted, nagging at him to eat well and dress better and get enough sleep. It was like he no longer mattered, didn’t even register on their radar, now that he wasn’t human.

He’d been expecting anger, raging, even the hit made sense, but he was wrong. It turned out that being ignored was worst of all.


	11. Chapter 11

John didn’t need to be a werewolf to recognize the deep-seated grief playing out across Greg’s face. It didn’t surprise him in the least when, after a few seconds of agonizing silence, Greg strode over to the door and left without so much as a word or look behind him, just a dejected set of slumped shoulders that spoke volumes as he gently shut the door behind him. Less than ten seconds later, after exchanging a short but poignant look with Sherlock, Mycroft followed him, expression set with grim determination.

“My goodness,” someone whispered, and John jumped because he’d nearly forgotten about his own family. His parents, Harry and Devon were standing in the doorway just behind him, watching the proceedings with clear interest. John carefully didn’t look at his father, not wanting to see the approval he knew would be lingering there. Instead he cleared his throat and tried to smile.

“You should get your luggage and go up to your rooms so you can get settled,” he said, realizing that he had no idea where they were going to be staying. It was too much to hope the answer would be anywhere but the mansion. 

Sherlock stepped up behind him, just close enough so that John could feel the faint tickle of warmth against his spine, and said, “Angela will take you there.” 

The name was unfamiliar, but as though summoned by name alone a young woman dressed in a uniform stepped around the corner. She smiled at Devon and, with a grace that came from experience, ushered the four members of the Watson family back into the other room even though Ormond clearly didn’t want to go. As the doors closed behind them, John turned around to face his mate. He was surprised, but not displeased, when Sherlock’s arms rose and slipped around him. 

“Did you know that was going to happen?” he asked, searching Sherlock’s face for the truth. It wasn’t often that Sherlock could lie to him, and he wanted to know if the man was going to try.

“I had my suspicions, based on Lestrade’s reaction when Mycroft mentioned his family had been invited,” Sherlock replied quietly. “As soon as I walked into the room I could tell that his father was unimpressed, bordering on angry. But no, I didn’t know for sure. Had I known he would react that way, I would’ve taken steps to prevent it.” Something unexpectedly dark flickered across his eyes and John squinted at him.

“You’re very possessive of Greg now,” he observed.

Sherlock huffed faintly, hands pressing tight against John’s hips. “He is my brother’s mate. It’s instinct,” he muttered with that faint sneer of disgust he always had when his body did something against his wishes. “I can’t help it.”

By tipping his head forward against Sherlock’s shoulder, John was still able to hide the smile he couldn’t bite back. He was pretty sure there was more to it than that: Greg and Sherlock had a strange, almost fatherly relationship that went far deeper than either was willing to admit. The sort of relationship he sometimes wondered if Mycroft wished he had with his little brother. It made perfect sense for Sherlock to react defensively when Greg was being threatened, but he didn’t think Sherlock would be pleased to hear that. If for nothing other than the fact that Sherlock hated being predictable.

“I’m sure Greg appreciated that you came to his defence,” he murmured instead. “It’s hard to stand up to your parents.” He knew that from personal experience. How many nights had he watched his father and Harry stand there and scream at each other, knowing that he should do something to intervene but at the same time not daring to? His fingers twisted into Sherlock’s coat.

“John.” Cool fingers tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. “Your parents… if you would prefer that they not be here, I can make arrangements for them to leave.”

John only briefly considered the offer, tempting though it was. So far neither of his parents had actually done anything to warrant being made to leave, his father’s comments about Sherlock and money aside, and even Harry was behaving herself. “No, that’s okay. I’d much rather the four of us left, but I’m sensing that’s no longer an option here.”

“Our mother is the head of the pack, John.” Sherlock looked genuinely apologetic as he spoke, breath warm against John’s cheek. “So far she’s kept away from London because she dislikes the city, but if she were to follow us there it could be a disaster.”

“So it’s a werewolf thing,” John surmised, sighing. He knew Mycroft held an important place in the pack of London, but he had never stopped to consider their family pack before. It was probably the sort of thing he and Sherlock should have discussed before they mated. He smiled wearily. “We’re stuck here, then. I’m guessing you and Mycroft have a plan of some kind?”

Clearly relieved by John’s easy acceptance, Sherlock kissed him lightly before he responded. “Neither of us have any real desire to be that head of the Holmes pack. It comes with more headaches than the position is truly worth. But if it becomes necessary, Mycroft is willing to challenge Mummy.”

“And you’d accept that?” John said, raising his eyebrows.

“My brother is already annoying and I don’t see how it would change things in the long run. Ultimately the position will probably fall to him when Mummy dies anyway, unless she names a different successor and thus far she hasn’t.” 

“I see.” And in the meantime they were just going to wait it out, he guessed. The idea didn’t thrill him but he could see where Sherlock and Mycroft were coming from. Werewolf politics and hierarchy were likely just as convoluted, if not more so, than the human version John had grown up with. He couldn’t really fault the brothers for not wanting to go against their mother, however much of a pest she was being. But he could admit, even if it was only to himself, that he wasn’t all that comfortable with Irene being around Sherlock for another five days.

He kissed Sherlock this time, humming softly when the arms around him tightened, and whispered, “Are there any more unfortunate surprises I should be looking forward to?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Sherlock answered, which did little to comfort him because Violet Holmes had already proven that she was more than capable of concealing things from her children. John sighed and pulled back reluctantly.

“I should go upstairs and make sure everything is okay,” he said, wondering if he was about to walk into the Watson version of what Greg had just gone through. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand one last time before he left, heading back up the stairs. It would’ve been nice to have had Sherlock’s comforting presence while facing his parents, but he knew that would not be wise.

It wasn’t too difficult to figure out where his family had been stationed; he only needed to follow the sounds of voices, which were much louder than the Holmes mansion had likely heard in decades. About halfway down the corridor, however, he stopped, sensing that there were eyes watching him. And not necessarily friendly eyes, at that. He turned slowly and realized that Violet Holmes was standing in the doorway of one of the rooms he had just passed. Her arms were folded and she was just… staring at him.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Um, Mrs Holmes?”

“I told you to call me Violet,” she said instantly.

“Violet, then. Was there something you needed?”

“I just can’t figure it out,” she said, lifting her hand to tap a polished finger against her chin. “What my son sees you in, I don’t understand. You’re not Sherlock’s usual type at all. If anything, you’re the complete opposite.”

“I think that’s between Sherlock and me,” John said tightly, already regretting having stopped.

“But you see, it’s really not. The mates my children select have a direct reflection on me, and it just so happens that I need Sherlock and Mycroft to choose differently. You can understand my dilemma, considering how immensely stubborn they can both be.”

John eyed her for a moment. Something about what she had just said sounded off, but it took him a few seconds to place it. “Wait, why would you _need_ Sherlock and Mycroft to pick different mates?” Regardless of the fact that she wanted them to have children, that was an odd way to phrase it and he had a sudden feeling that there was more to the story than anyone else was aware of.

Violet’s eyes widened slightly and she actually took a small step back. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Considering that you’re trying to break up me and my mate, I think it is,” he replied grimly, following her into the room and shutting the door. One way or another he was going to get to the bottom of this.


	12. Chapter 12

At some point during the night the temperature had dropped enough for it to snow. Greg surveyed the light dusting and realized that any thoughts of just walking back to London were now officially derailed, if only because he'd forgot to put on shoes when he left the mansion. Knowing that he wouldn't get far in his threadbare socks, he sat down on the front steps, rested his chin on his hands and waited. A moment later, the door opened behind him and Mycroft stepped out. To his credit, he hesitated only briefly before he sat down beside Greg.

"I am sorry," he said without preamble, his back stiff enough to indicate just how uncomfortable he was. Though whether it was because of the cold that had to be sinking into his backside or the fact that they were sitting somewhere he normally wouldn't be caught dead, it was hard to say.

"It's not your fault my father's an arse," Greg replied.

"No, but it was my fault that you were subjected to the things he said. I was the reason they were invited here in the first place."

Greg glanced over at him then, realizing that this was bothering Mycroft more than he was expecting. His mate looked genuinely contrite, thin lines of worry painted across his forehead like he was waiting for Greg to yell at him. "It's really not," he said as gently as possible, which considering how he was feeling at the moment probably wasn't very gentle at all. "I couldn't have kept it from them forever. Sooner or later Mum would've wanted to meet you and then I'd have had to tell them anyway."

"You could have," Mycroft said carefully. "Kept it from them, I mean. I wouldn’t have given you away."

"No," Greg said firmly. "No, I really couldn't. I'm not ashamed of being a werewolf, My." And he realized, with a surprising flash of clarity, that it was true. He'd spent most of his life being told that werewolves were wrong and evil, that they couldn't be trusted, and it had taken him some time to be able to work past that when he initially joined Scotland Yard. Meeting Sherlock and Mycroft had only affirmed the realization that his parents were wrong. Though he had never expected to become a werewolf himself, he didn't regret his decision. Not even after what had happened with his parents.

He breathed out, watching as a cloud of white mist dissipated, and leaned against his mate. Mycroft wrapped an arm around him automatically and Greg savoured the extra little bit of warmth as he said, "I guess... there was a part of me that thought this might happen. Though I have to admit I never actually thought he'd hit me."

Mycroft tensed, an audible growl rumbling in his chest at the reminder. "I should have killed him."

"I can take care of myself, you know," Greg said, amused.

"You're my mate," Mycroft murmured, turning and gazing down at him in a way that made Greg's breath catch in his throat. The intensity in Mycroft's blue-grey eyes was astonishing, the warmth of his arm around Greg's shoulders grounding. "No matter how capable you are, it will always be my responsibility to make sure that you're taken care of. You're as important to me as Sherlock. Just as I care for him and John, I will care for you."

In spite of his best efforts Greg couldn't think of anything to say in response. He just stared. He'd never had anyone say something like that to him, and the worst - or best - part was that he knew Mycroft was completely serious. Sherlock had always been the most important thing in Mycroft's life. Greg had accepted that straight off. And now hearing that Mycroft was putting him on the same level, even just below, was enough to make him feel a little dizzy. He'd known, before now, that this relationship between them was forever, but this was the kind of confirmation he had never expected to receive.

The arm around his shoulders tightened just a little as Mycroft sighed. He didn’t speak, seemingly willing to just sit there with Greg in the quiet. It took a couple of minutes for Greg to find the words he wanted to say. Hesitantly, he said, “I’m sorry about the reaction my parents had, because I know it upset you and Sherlock –” and wow, wasn’t that still something he had trouble wrapping his mind around “- but I’m not sorry that they know now. You’re a part of my life. The most important part, you and Sherlock and John and the pack, and I… you make me happy.”

“I love you too,” Mycroft said simply, and then he leaned down and kissed Greg on the forehead. “And if your father ever touches you again, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “It won’t happen a second time,” he said, not because he didn’t think Jack wouldn’t: in his father’s eyes, he’d become something to fear, something that should be scorned and hunted, and he knew that his father would think nothing of another blow or worse. But because next time Greg would be prepared for the possibility. He wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

He cuddled in closer to Mycroft, nuzzling his head into his the curve of Mycroft’s throat. It was just warm enough to take the edge off the chill.

LBSTM

Even though Violet was an alpha with several more years of experience than the omega standing across from her, even though she was on her own territory surrounded by pack that would come to her aid if necessary, she looked like a trapped animal as she backed away from John. John let the door swing shut behind him, cutting off the obvious escape route, and folded his arms. This was not a conversation he had expected to have, but now that the opportunity had presented itself he wanted to know what was going on. 

“Tell me,” he said firmly, hoping she wouldn’t be foolish enough to make a run for it. Sherlock and Mycroft would find out about this, of course, but depending on what she said was he would approach them with it. He injected a note of the steel that had served him so well in the army as he added, “I’m not leaving until you do.”

For a moment it seemed like she was going to tell him to go away again regardless, but then all at once she sagged. Her expression shuttered, becoming perfectly blank in a way that was eerily familiar. “I’m being blackmailed.”

Out of all the possible responses that John was expecting, that was definitely _not_ on the list. He stared at her for several seconds, waiting for her to expound or maybe declare that it was some kind of joke. But when she just continued to meet his gaze with a clenched jaw, he sighed and lifted a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache fast developing. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. You think I would choose to lie about something like this?” She lifted her chin and folded her arms. 

“Well, excuse me for having difficulty believing you,” John said dryly. “Who is blackmailing you? Why? And why haven’t you bothered to tell your sons about this?”

Violet was silent for only a moment. “His name is Charles Milverton.”

That was clearly supposed to mean something to John, but it didn’t. He raised an eyebrow and Violet rolled her eyes before stalking over to the desk that sat in the corner of the room. She took a key from her pocket and unlocked one of the drawers, pulling it open and taking a sheaf of papers from inside. John took them when they were unceremoniously thrust into his face and smoothed the top sheet out so that he could get a better look at it.

It was an article from a journal, talking about a Detective Charles Milverton who had recently achieved accolades from an American university after he uncovered some information about the board of directors. The rest of the papers were similar: each mentioned Charles Milverton in some way, and he couldn’t help noticing that each article sang the man’s praises in some way. He apparently had a knack for finding out information others would vastly prefer to keep hidden. There wasn’t a single word of condemnation to be found even though the dates ranged over the course of about ten years.

“This man is the one blackmailing you,” John said, glancing up at her. “Why?”

“This man makes a _living_ out of blackmailing,” Violet said spitefully. “If you’re important enough to come to his attention, rest assured it means he has information on you that you’d rather the public didn’t find out. That’s why he became a detective in the first place, so that he’d have a safe way of screwing over the people who didn’t bend over backwards to agree with his demands.”

John’s headache was rapidly getting worse. “But _why_?”

She wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “The why or how of it doesn’t matter. All I know is he wants Sherlock and Irene and Mycroft and Kate as mates, and I need to find a way to make it happen.”

“It’s not going to happen,” John said. “I’m sorry you’re being blackmailed, but I love Sherlock and I know he loves me. He’s not going to leave me for Irene.” He spoke the words confidently enough, he thought. “You’re just going to have to tell Detective Milverton that.”

“No!” Violet leapt forward, clutching at his arm. “I can’t. He’ll ruin me.”


	13. Chapter 13

Even though John knew there was a distinct possibility he was being played, he couldn’t help believing what Violet was saying. She just looked so earnest, her eyes wide with desperation, and he found himself wanting to help her in whatever way he could. Her methods weren’t necessarily right, and she hadn’t been approaching the situation the way she should have, but it was easy to see how she felt she had been backed into a corner and had no other choice. And if he had learned anything about the Holmes family, it was that they never went down without a fight.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, glancing back down at the articles he was still holding. The obvious answer would be for him to agree to Violet’s demands and just leave. Slip out of the mansion now while Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg were preoccupied, let Violet send his family away later. It would be difficult to get out of the country before Mycroft discovered his departure and made to stop him, but John was fairly confident Violet would have the right connections to make it happen. Sherlock would be upset, but Irene would be there to pick up the pieces.

As though sensing weakness, Violet stepped closer still. “I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she confessed quietly. “It’s been wearing me out, honestly. I haven’t had a proper sleep in weeks. No, months. You know my children, John. You know how stubborn they are. But if you could help me..."

John squeezed his eyes shut. Life without Sherlock would be dreadful. That pull would never go away; the connection between them would always thrum with need and unanswered desperation. His fingers trembled a little. But he could do it. He’d already made a new life for himself once, after he’d been sent home from the war and left floundering. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to do it a second time.

He breathed out slowly and glanced back at Violet, trying to get himself more under control before he spoke again. “Why haven’t you mentioned this to Sherlock or Mycroft? Surely they would be able to stop Milverton.”

“I don’t want them involved,” Violet said sharply. “You can’t understand this because you don’t have children, but I won’t have them getting swept up in something so dangerous. It’s bad enough that Sherlock regularly takes on those silly little cases and puts himself in harm's way.” Her voice had taken on a derisive quality that made the hair on the back of John’s neck prickle. “And Mycroft, he hasn’t done legwork in years. All he would do is delegate it to someone else. You think I trust the incompetents who work for my son to investigate such delicate information?”

John stared at her. “You really don’t know your children at all,” he said, and that more than anything was enough to make the decision for him. He wasn’t going to leave. Even though it could be done, and someday maybe it wouldn’t even hurt anymore, he and Sherlock had gone through too much for him to walk away now. Not even if it meant that Violet Holmes would be ruined by a blackmailer.

Her face twisted with anger and she shoved him away, hard enough that he actually stumbled. “It’s you who doesn’t know them,” she spat. “If you honestly think that you’re enough to make Sherlock happy, then you haven’t even begun to understand the depths of who he truly is. Sherlock will _never_ be fully pleased with you. He needs someone who can stand with him and be a match, not just physically but intellectually. I want my son to be happy and I know Irene will do a much better job of that than you.”

Any thoughts of trying to pry more information out of her, such as what exactly she was being blackmailed about, vanished. John had to get out of the room. He turned and walked blindly to the door, fumbled until it opened and he was out in the hall. Much as he might not have wanted to admit it, Violet had stumbled across one of his most deeply seated fears. He’d always wondered, right from the beginning, if he was smart enough to warrant Sherlock’s attention. Physical attraction, pheromones, had brought them together, and every once in a while a niggling doubt would surface to make him wonder what _kept_ them together.

The house had gone quiet while he and Violet had been speaking. It was just as well, as he had no intention of speaking to his family at the moment. He went back down the stairs, hoping that Sherlock would be preoccupied elsewhere. As it turned out he was, but Greg and Mycroft were just entering the house and there was no way to dodge them. Greg glanced at him, started to smile, and stopped when he caught sight of John’s face. Without saying a word he reached out and took John by the arm to stop him, taking a moment to study him before he spoke.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” John said, and tried on a smile. He didn’t need a raised eyebrow in return to know that he hadn’t been successful. His jaw ached with tension.

“There’s something,” said Greg.

Mycroft stepped closer and dipped his head just close enough to inhale. “You smell of my mother.” His voice deepened towards the end, a hint of the rumbling growl that had so thoroughly scared Jack Lestrade seeping in. “What did she say to make you so distraught?”

“She’s not going to give up on getting me and Greg out of here,” John said. “She said – she’s being blackmailed. Here.” Realizing he still held the articles that Violet had given him, he shoved them at Mycroft until the papers were taken from his shaking hands. Mycroft flipped through them slowly, his expression gradually darkening.

“My?” Greg said warily.

“I’ve heard of Charles Milverton,” Mycroft said. “He’s blackmailing my mother?”

“That’s what she said,” John mumbled. “She didn’t want me to say anything to you or Sherlock. She was trying to convince me to give up and leave and let Irene take my place. I think she figured that if I was gone, it would be much easier to get Greg to go too.”

Mycroft’s eyes rose from the paper. After a succinct but probably unnecessary pause, he said, “And you considered it.”

John opened his mouth, ready to deny it, and then closed it when he realized there was really no point. Because it was true, for a couple of minutes there he really had thought about just leaving. Might have even tried had Violet not pushed her luck and reminded him all over again why he should be disinclined to do her a favour, particularly not one that would end everything he had been working towards for the past several months. 

Mycroft was glaring at him now, furious on his brother’s behalf. “Are you insane?” he hissed. “Do you not grasp the fact that my mother raised Sherlock and me, and that everything Sherlock knows about emotional manipulation he learned from her?”

“She’s being _blackmailed_ , Mycroft.”

“Yes, and if I know my mother it’s probably because she deserved it,” Mycroft snapped. “Regardless of what she might want you to think, my mother is far smarter than you’re giving her credit for. If she has come to the attention of Charles Milverton, then either she’s slipping or it’s intentional. Let me assure you, the latter is far more likely than the former. Chances are she saw an opportunity to get you and Greg to leave, all while still being able to claim she had nothing to do with it!”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who thought about leaving,” Greg said defensively, but he sounded a little guilty and his grip on John’s arm had loosened, becoming almost apologetic. 

“No but I expect the same thought would have occurred to you if my mother had gone to you first,” Mycroft said grimly, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to tear the papers he was clutching to shreds. Unexpectedly he turned, stalking across the floor towards one of the doors that John had yet to investigate. He passed through without looking back, and after exchanging a quick glance John and Greg followed.

Sherlock was preoccupied, alright, by what turned out to be a small laboratory that would have been hidden to anyone who didn’t know where to look. Mycroft did. He threw the door open with little regard for what his brother might have been concocting and said, “Mummy just tried to manipulate John into leaving the house. And you. Permanently."

"Did she," Sherlock said, clearly not listening. He was in the middle of pouring some clear liquid into a beaker that was about half-filled with a powdery substance. The beaker was beginning to foam, but at least he was wearing safety goggles this time.

"It nearly worked."

Sherlock paused midway through pouring as the words registered. "What?"

"She's being blackmailed," John said a little helplessly, wishing that he'd just gone in a different direction. He'd intended to explain the matter to Sherlock and Mycroft, but not like this.

After setting the beaker down carefully, Sherlock swung around. His mouth was set into a grim frown. "Explain."


	14. Chapter 14

For about a minute after Mycroft finished speaking, Sherlock did not respond. He just sat there, not daring to look at his brother, John or Greg lest the anger surging through him get the better of him. Normally Sherlock was capable of controlling himself no matter what the situation. It was one of the things he prided himself on, if only because it was an important ability for any consulting detective to have. But in this case he could tell that his grip on his temper was tenuous at best. 

Choosing to mate with John had not been a decision that Sherlock had made lightly, not after years spent believing that he would not find someone who was worthwhile. Relationships, mating, even sex, all of it took time and energy that would normally be devoted to a case. Once or twice he had questioned the decision to invite John into his home, had even wondered if he’d made the right choice, but all it took was the thought of John with someone else to convince him that letting John go would have been the mistake. 

John was his. Period. He was patient, kind, and far more caring than he should have been, but at the same time he was stubborn to a fault and had a taste for danger and adrenaline. He was intelligent, skilled when it came to anything having to do with medicine or the human body, and possessed a macabre sense of humour that matched Sherlock’s perfectly. He was protective and possessive and an excellent shot with a gun and he wasn’t above ordering people around when necessary, omega or not, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine life without him.

He had already come close to losing John once, and the memory of that moment regularly haunted Sherlock to the point that sometimes he found it difficult to sleep even with John safe in bed beside him. Hearing that his mother had nearly been successful in driving John away, that he had nearly lost his omega for a second time… it was enough to make the wolf inside of him howl dangerously. He shifted his weight and stood slowly, pulling the safety goggles off of his head and casting them carelessly away on the floor.

"Sherlock," John said, but it was as though his voice was coming from a long distance and Sherlock ignored him, striding towards the door without casting any of them so much as a glance. He was only vaguely aware of his brother falling into step beside him, but for once Sherlock did not bemoan Mycroft's insistence on poking his nose into everything. For once, this concerned them both equally.

The second floor was quiet, with only the distant sound of John's family to break the heavy silence that Sherlock remembered so well from his childhood. Down the hall, past all of the other rooms, Sherlock opened the door that concealed the staircase to the third floor. Mycroft went up first, always the leader, and Sherlock followed, knowing that Greg and John were not far behind. Violet's scent grew more pungent the higher that they went. This was where she spent most of her time, as it was a private area just for family where no one else, not even the maids, went.

He felt a grim sense of satisfaction in bringing John and Greg up.

Just as he had expected, Violet was there, waiting for them on her balcony. Dramatic to the end, that was his mother. She turned as they entered her bedroom, folding her arms across her chest. "Boys," she said calmly, like it was just an average day, like they were recalcitrant children brought to hand for a scolding.

A new surge of fury flooded through Sherlock and he bared his teeth, wishing that he had the ability to shift into his wolf form outside of the full moon – or that the sun would go down already, letting the moon rise so that he could attack her in a more primal and satisfying way. Her eyes widened and she sucked in an affronted breath, looking seconds away from giving him an admonishment. Mycroft's hand settled on Sherlock's shoulder and her mouth snapped shut instead: whatever she saw in their expressions was enough of a warning. It was a little pleasing, but not nearly as much as seeing how her face drained of colour when Mycroft started to speak.

"We came here hoping that you would be open to be learning about mates. Until now, we thought that there was a chance you could still come to appreciate Greg and John, Mummy," he said. Anyone else might have thought he was composed, but Sherlock knew his brother well enough to hear the rage lurking beneath the mask. "Our mates have been nothing but cordial to you since they arrived, even though you've done everything possible to make them uncomfortable and miserable. I tried to ignore it at first, thinking that you were still upset about a lack of grandchildren, but now you're crossing lines. Trying to drive Sherlock's mate away? Really?"

"I had to, you don't understand. You'll never be -"

"What? Happy?" Sherlock spat, unable to keep silent any longer. His voice was cold enough that she winced just a little and he was glad for it. The years before John had been long and lonely, but he had never been aware of that until the day a scruffy, war-torn omega came back to 221b with him. He hadn't minded the solitude before he knew what it could be like with John, but now it would be unbearable.

"Yes! I'm your mother, I know you better than anyone. Irene is -"

"Irene was a friend of mine when I was younger and nothing more," Sherlock said, cutting her off for a second time. "You're slipping, Mummy, considering that you failed to notice that Irene and Kate were in a relationship of their own. It begs the question of what you or someone else blackmailed _them_ with to make them come here in the first place. Irene has a fair amount of secrets in her closet, but not many that would make her succumb to a ploy like this. So what was it? Did you threaten Kate?”

Violet’s face flushed with anger. “Don’t you speak to me that way, Sherlock Holmes. I did nothing of the sort. When I extended an invitation for Irene and Kate to visit, they were both thrilled to accept.”

Sherlock doubted that was true and he was positive that his sceptical expression made that abundantly clear. "We're leaving," he said quietly.

There weren't many times in his life that Sherlock could say he had shocked his mother speechless, but this was one of them. Violet's mouth actually dropped open, eyes flicking back and forth between her two sons in dismayed silence. Sherlock refused to meet her gaze, turning on his heel. John and Greg were standing just behind, watching, and he reached out and pressed the palm of his hand against John's back to guide him out the door first. He didn't want John anywhere around his mother.

Behind him he heard Mycroft say something, voice cast in the low murmur that meant he was making an attempt to smooth things over, but Sherlock had no interest in sticking around to listen. Coming here had been a mistake, just as he had thought it would be from the beginning. Mycroft had insisted that they come and John had agreed, and Sherlock knew that he should have put his foot down. Should have taken a case in France, Russia, America - anywhere other than Holmes estate would have sufficed.

John was quiet until they got back down to the second floor, but there he stopped Sherlock's progress with a gentle but firm hand to his shoulder. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did."

"She's your mother, Sherlock," John said patiently. 

"She was manipulating you," Sherlock snapped, the familiar coil of fury burning in his belly. Though he had polished his skills over the years, the basic core of learning had come from his mother and brother. Violet was a skilled manipulator. She enjoyed fabricating stories simply for the challenge of making strangers believe them. When Sherlock was a child, she used to take him to the park and let him watch.

"That doesn't mean -"

"Yes, it does," Sherlock said. John blinked at him, taking in Sherlock's expression and the tense set of his shoulders, and his eyes softened. The layer of stubbornness faded away swiftly with the realization of how upset Sherlock really was and he nodded.

"If you're sure, then I'll tell my parents and we'll go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be an update next week. Happy Holidays, guys!


	15. Chapter 15

It was one of the few times in her life that Jane could say her boss had honestly surprised her. She was not expecting to walk into the office of Mycroft Holmes and see the man sitting behind his desk already, but to her credit she did not let the shock throw her: she paused for only a split second before continuing, setting the newest stack of world news on the edge of his desk as she studied Mycroft's pinched expression. Without asking she knew that he hadn't even looked at his schedule, just like she knew that he was going to need a pastry of some kind to go with his morning cup of tea.

She left the room quietly and placed two separate orders to Mycroft's favourite bakery, because if Mycroft had returned in such a bad mood she was certain that Greg Lestrade was going to need some pastries too. Mycroft's order showed up within ten minutes and she carried it up to his office, kicking the door shut behind her. She set the bag and two cups of tea down and said, "That bad, was it?"

"Mummy tried multiple times to get John and Greg to abandon us," Mycroft said without looking up, his dark scowl only deepening. Jane winced and pushed a cup of tea across the desk, prepared just the way he liked it with a bit of cream.

"I anticipated that the visit might not go the way you desired, but I didn't think it would be that bad," she said, hinting at an apology. She would have warned him had she known, but the Holmes family could be so unpredictable. It had cost Jane several hours of sleep to be able to get to know Mycroft as well as she had, and even now there were certain depths she was unaware of.

"Neither did I. I suppose that for once, Sherlock had the right idea." Finally he lifted his head, accepting the warm apple tart she was offering. He didn't bite into it, though, instead surveying the spicy apple filling like a puppy that had been so thoroughly kicked it had no idea what to do. "I hated to leave. John's family was there, and Greg's too... I can negotiate a treaty between two feuding countries, but..." He shook his head and sighed. "In this case we really had no choice. And now I'm wondering when Mummy is going to come knocking."

Jane contemplated that as she perched on the side of his desk with her own pastry, a fruit-and-nut square that would go straight to her thighs. Every delectable bite was worth it. "Maybe she won't," she offered, knowing there was little chance of that happening. Violet Holmes was tenacious. She wouldn't give up that easily. She'd have to be cleverer now, certainly, but what Holmes didn't love a challenge? The thought of all the unsubtle hints to come was enough to make Jane want to get mated immediately just to take herself out of the running.

"I see little chance of that happening," Mycroft said wryly, but he took a bite of the tart and Jane considered it a personal victory. They passed the rest of the hour having a light discussion about what he'd missed (which wasn't much, considering that the man who tended to make everything happen was the one who'd been on vacation), and by the time she took her leave to get back to work she was pleased to note that Mycroft seemed far more at ease. He even left the office at a reasonable time, which meant she got to keep her dinner plans with Molly.

As a precautionary measure, Jane assigned a couple of men to watch the Holmes estate and notify her if Violet left for London. After a couple of days had gone by and she didn't hear anything from them, she grew more tense instead of allowing herself to relax. It wasn't like Violet to let this go without challenging her sons, but Jane had posted trusted operatives and if they hadn't contacted her then that meant Violet had not tried to leave. The stress of it all was beginning to wear on everyone - she had a stack of reports on her desk that indicated Sherlock was in a truly foul mood and that things seemed to be tense between him and John, which wasn't helping Lestrade's attitude - and she found it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

Even Molly. The slow glide of fingers across her abdomen caused Jane to blink at her partner, realizing that while they were both nude and lying in bed together she hadn't been focusing on the proceedings. Molly raised a playful eyebrow once she realized she had her partner's focus back and Jane sighed, reaching down to capture Molly's hand and lift it to her lips. "I'm sorry," she said, kissing the supple flesh in apology. "I know I haven't been very good company tonight. I just keep thinking -"

" - about what happened during their visit home," Molly finished, a warm smile tugging at her lips. "It's okay, Jane, I get it. Sherlock was in the lab today and he was being a lot worse than normal, so I can only imagine how stressful it must be for you to have to deal with his big brother." She leaned over and kissed Jane gently, hair falling across Jane's face. Jane inhaled instinctively, a little shiver rushing through her at the familiar scent. Finding a partner was difficult considering the kind of work that she did. Sometimes she still wasn't sure how she had become so fortunate as to start dating Molly.

The memory of the first time she'd truly paid attention to Molly Hooper flashed through her mind again: Molly, standing in nothing more than just a sheet, composed enough to have the alphas who were supposed to be guarding her fighting over her instead. It wasn't very often that Jane came across someone who was capable of holding their own like that. The fact that Molly was already known to Mycroft through Sherlock and John was just a bonus; what had grown between them was a gift and Jane couldn't afford to lose it.

"I love that you get it," she said, pulling back and slinging a leg across Molly's belly. She shifted her weight up until she was straddling Molly and looking up at her through lowered lashes with her best sexy look. It worked, judging by how Molly's breath hitched. "But let me just -"

A phone ringing cut her off before she could finish. Molly sighed as Jane's expression immediately turned apologetic. They both knew the call had to be answered. Jane grabbed her phone, recognizing the number immediately. She brought it to her ear. "Yes?"

"Anthea," Mycroft said.

Jane straightened up and the slow circles Molly had been tracing on her hips paused. "Sir?" Mycroft rarely called her by that name when there was no one else around, and as far as she knew he was supposed to be at home with Greg.

"I need you. Immediately. You may bring Miss Hooper."

"Sir -" Any other questions she had went unspoken, as the line went dead.

"Jane?" Molly said.

"I've got to get dressed. Something's wrong." Jane hesitated. She hadn't run out on Molly too often - yet. But she knew that her job was one of the biggest reasons why she didn't often have a successful relationship. It always had to come first and most people couldn't handle that.

Fortunately, Molly wasn't most people. She sat up and kissed Jane again, just a soft brush of lips. "It's okay. This is important. Go."

"You can come too."

Molly's eyes widened slightly, but that was the only indication she gave of her surprise. "Okay. Let's get dressed."

There was a car waiting for them downstairs and it took them to the last place Jane was expecting: 221b. Her worry only grew as she jumped out of the car and hurried up the stairs with Molly right behind her. The sound of softly spoken voices greeted her as she opened the door without waiting for an invitation. Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock and John were all in the room, along with a couple of people that Jane was not familiar with - though their uniforms indicated they were policemen of some sort. Sherlock was sitting in his chair with John hovering over him, while Greg sat on the sofa and Mycroft looked like he dearly wanted to pace but wouldn't give in to the compulsion.

"What's going on?" Jane demanded.

Sherlock gave a short, tense laugh. "Our mother is dead, but that's not the worst part. No, apparently the man she was being blackmailed by was actually her."

Jane blinked, sorting rapidly through this somewhat confusing sentence as she stepped aside to let Molly in. "What? You mean..."

Mycroft sighed. "Our mother was actually Charles Milverton."


	16. Chapter 16

To say that things had been awkward since their return to London was an understatement. Sherlock had been in the kind of mood the likes of which John had never seen before, snapping at everyone who dared to even glance in his direction. It was just reaching the point when John was getting ready to have it out with him when there was a knock on their door late at night. John frowned, casting a curious look at his alpha before he carefully marked his place in his book and got up to answer. Had he known the confusion that was waiting on the other side, he might not have bothered.

By the time Jane and Molly arrived, John had a renewed headache. He crossed his arms as he regarded the two confused women, not blaming them one bit for their bewilderment. He'd already heard the story once and he didn't feel like he understood it any better. "Violet Holmes was discovered in her bed late this morning. She was murdered. The local police found some... interesting items when they were examining the crime scene."

"A bunch of lies, you mean," Sherlock muttered, glaring openly at the detective and the officer standing in the room. The officer shifted uncomfortably, looking awkward, but the detective glared right back. He was an alpha, John could tell, as opposed to the beta officer, and he was not taking kindly to Sherlock's continued efforts at posturing. There was starting to be a little too much stubbornness in this room and he was praying that the arrival of two more betas would help to diffuse it before Sherlock did something stupid.

"Our investigation is not a bunch of lies and I'll thank you to not treat it as such," said the detective hotly. "We did not have to involve you and your brother to the extent that we have. This is a courtesy extended from us to you, but if you continue to take that sort of attitude we'll gladly return to the estate and continue the investigation without your aide."

"There's no need for that," Greg said, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked tired. "Look, why don't you just - just go over it again."

Sherlock sighed loudly. John placed a quelling hand on his shoulder and nodded at the detective.

"Very well. I'm Detective Gregson and this is Officer Hawkins. Early this afternoon we were summoned to the Holmes estate by Cecelia Jenkins, the resident chef. She was reporting a murder. When we arrived, we found the body of Violet Holmes in her bed. She was shot once in the forehead." Gregson paused to flip through his notebook, though he didn't seem to be reading any of the words. "The coroner says that her death was instantaneous. She was unaware of what was going on. He places her death at about 9am this morning. Upon doing an initial examination of the room, we discovered that she'd kept a copious amount of notes in her locked desk. Most of those notes contained information about numerous people around the globe, as well as correspondence with a good portion of them."

"And the letters, the e-mails, they were from Charles Milverton," Jane concluded, a dawning look of horror flashing briefly across her features before she smoothed her face out into the mask of professional composure she was so good at. 

"That is correct. There were letters and e-mails, some videos and even a few compact discs. There may be more data on her computer; we have a technician working on it right now but it was heavily password protected. As it stands, we are working off the assumption that Violet Holmes was either Charles Milverton or that she was working in very close contact with him."

"But she can't _be_ Charles Milverton," said Molly, blushing when Gregson looked at her. "I've heard of him. I mean, he's a man. Isn't he?"

"To be fair, pictures of Milverton are scarce," Hawkins volunteered shyly. "I did a little research into it before we got here. He is rarely photographed and he generally refuses interviews, preferring to remain anonymous, and for good reason when you think about all the people he’s pissed off. There is a chance, albeit a slim one, that the pictures of him are not of him at all. As far as I know, none of them were ever confirmed by Milverton. And there are a lot of ways to alter your voice or make people think you're someone you're not..." He trailed off and shifted uncomfortably at the force of the glare that both Sherlock and Mycroft were giving him.

John tightened his grip slightly and glanced at Greg. He wasn’t sure about the rest of them, but he wouldn’t have been too surprised to find out that Violet was Milverton. While it was easier to think that she was likely just a partner he was all too aware that it was the kind of ruse that wouldn’t be all that difficult to pull off, especially for a Holmes. The real question was why Violet would have bothered blackmailing so many people. What was she getting out of it? And why would she have pretended that Milverton was blackmailing her?

Then again, maybe that was the point. Sherlock sometimes did things just because he was bored, like shooting holes into the walls or roaming around London to memorize any changes that had been done to the city. He tried to imagine Sherlock in the middle of nowhere, with only a small town nearby for company, and shuddered. The alpha would go stir crazy in a matter of days, if not hours. So if Violet was anything more like her sons, then there was a possibility this was – or had been – her way of passing the time under the radar.

There was only way to find out. He cleared his throat. “So what next?” he asked, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over the room. No one else seemed to be willing to break the tension, but he suspected he knew what was coming and he wanted it out in the open.

“I propose we accompany Detective Gregson back to the estate so we can find out exactly what’s going on,” said Mycroft, just as John had guessed that he would. The way he said it made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t _proposing_ anything and Gregson bristled, eyes narrowing.

“You can’t just invite yourself along,” he snapped. “This is an official police matter, for one thing, and for another you’re family of the deceased. You can't be involved."

“We are all affiliated with the police in one way or another,” Sherlock pointed out. His muscles were stiff under John’s hand, but he had yet to move. “And believe me, Detective Gregson, you will never find all of the secrets that our mother was hiding. Not even if you search the house for the next twenty years. Furthermore, she was murdered and I intend to find out who it was regardless of whether you agree to our presence or not.”

“He’s not lying,” Greg said, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s prone to showing up at crime scenes uninvited.”

“I’ll arrest you if you do,” Gregson said.

“No you won’t,” Mycroft said softly, drawing himself up in clear warning. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John could feel him relax just a fraction as the mood in the room changed. Mycroft looked like an alpha, strong and imposing and _daring_ Gregson to deny him. “This investigation will go much more smoothly if you cooperate, Detective. It’s ultimately your decision, but if you were wise you would reconsider my request.”

Gregson’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being backed into a corner. John knew exactly how he felt. Coming up against a stubborn Holmes was exactly like beating your head against a brick wall. The seconds ticked by while Gregson searched for something to say, but Mycroft’s gaze never once wavered. Finally, he gritted out, “Very well. We’re departing tomorrow morning on the 9am train. You are welcome to join us if you wish, as long as you remember that this is my crime scene and I’m the one in charge.”

“Of course.” Mycroft stepped aside to let the two of them leave, and after a moment Gregson stormed out. Hawkins trailed behind, nodding awkwardly. Jane closed the door behind them, and when she turned around John saw she already had her phone in hand.

“I’ll reschedule your meetings, sir,” she said, typing busily. “And I’ll send a request for leave to Scotland Yard for Greg, and to the clinic for John.”

“But –” John started to protest, and she paused. He hadn’t really considered what going back to the estate would mean. He’d only just told Sarah he was back; he hadn’t worked more than three shifts at the clinic so far. He didn’t think she would take another extended vacation very well.

A hand brushed against his waist, pressing subtly at his hip. He looked away from Jane and down into Sherlock’s eyes: big with just a hint of pleading. It was genuine, something he wouldn’t have let anyone else see, and just about broke his heart. Sherlock needed him. He sighed and acquiesced with a tip of his head, allowing his weight to sink against Sherlock’s side when the hand against his hip pressed him there, trying not to watch as Jane smiled knowingly and kept typing. So much for his job.


	17. Chapter 17

It had just been too easy. That was the predominant thought going through Greg’s mind as he watched Mycroft pack their luggage that night. Though it was late, he knew there was no point in either of them bothering to lay down. The chances of any sleep being had that night was slim to none, and he suspected that Mycroft needed to work a little of his energy off before he did anything else. It wasn’t very often that Mycroft Holmes became incapable of maintaining his composed façade, but Gregson’s visit had completely thrown both him and his brother off.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed, letting his head fall into his cupped palms. Violet Holmes had been a menace, that was true, but no one deserved the kind of death she’d been given. Gregson had shown him and Mycroft a handful of the crime scene photos. Yes Violet ultimately died of a gunshot wound to the forehead, but not before a little torture was inflicted. He tried to imagine sleeping peacefully and being woken by the pressure of a gun to his left shoulder, the burning agony that must’ve jerked her awake. He couldn’t. 

Violet deserved to have her murderer be brought to justice even if she was blackmailing people, and yet… Greg raised his head just enough to look at Mycroft again. Just when the increased lines of tension and fatigue had been fading from Mycroft’s face, they were back in full and much worse this time. His mate was looking old, his shoulders slightly bowed under a weight he might not be strong enough to endure. This case might be the one that broke Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. How was he supposed to do deal with that?

“My?” he ventured at last, letting his hands fall into his lap. Mycroft acted like he couldn’t even hear him, too preoccupied with carefully folding a pair of Greg’s jeans and setting them into the suitcase like the fabric was a pricelessly fragile vase. Greg sighed and waited, tapping his fingers absently against his thigh, until Mycroft deemed that he’d put enough clothing into the case for both of them. Only once he’d closed it and placed it beside the door, ready for the last minute articles they’d add right before they left, did Greg try again.

He got up and walked over to Mycroft, lightly skimming his fingers across tense muscles. He located the knots with ease and dug in, pressing with just the right amount of force. It took several minutes of steady work but eventually Mycroft melted beneath his touch, sinking against the wall with a soft groan. Sounding hazy, he said, “You are far too good at that.”

Greg smiled. “I’d say I’m just good enough,” he said softly, leaning in to brush a kiss across the back of Mycroft’s neck. His alpha smelled of sweat and ink, comforting. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“She was dreadful to you and John.”

“That does little to change the fact that she was still your mum.” God knew Greg’s own parents had been awful, but if someone called him tomorrow and told him one or both of them were dead he’d be devastated. And had they been murdered, well, he would do whatever it took to find the person responsible. Temporarily satisfied with the state of Mycroft’s back, he stepped forward until he could slip his arms around Mycroft’s waist and rest his forehead on the broad shoulders.

“It hasn’t sunk in yet,” Mycroft said after a split second pause, just long enough for it to become notable. He placed a hand on Greg’s wrist, thumb rubbing idle circles. “And still, the whole way back all I could think was thank god for John Watson.”

It only took a moment of Greg pondering how Sherlock would’ve reacted had he still been alone for him to grimace. No doubt Sherlock would’ve buried his grief, too much like his big brother for his own good, until he could no longer withstand the pressure and sought relief in drugs. They’d been down that path before. “I’ll give you that,” he said, nuzzling his cheek against the dark blue material of Mycroft’s shirt. Worrying about Sherlock would have put even more stress on Mycroft that he really did not need. “Have you got any theories yet?”

“About the culprit? No.” Mycroft turned then, sliding his own arms around Greg. “Well. I have ideas, but nothing concrete. Sherlock and I have made several enemies in our line of work. It’s not beyond the realm of imagination to think that one of them might be looking for revenge. And, of course, there is the possibility that Gregson is correct and our mother was either working with Milverton or was him.”

“Do you think that’s really a possibility?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Sherlock gets his hatred of boredom from Mummy. When we were younger, she was never the sort of person to laze around the house. She always had to be doing something entertaining. It only got worse after she retired from her work with the government and she began spending more time at home. She used to complain to me frequently. I would suggest charity work and she would tell me to piss off.” He smiled faintly before sighing. “About five years ago the complaints tapered off. I considered it a blessing and did not press her for details, preferring instead to assume that she had found something to occupy her time. I should have known –”

“Mycroft, come on. There’s no way you could’ve known,” Greg said firmly. “God, when your mother stops calling you up the first thought that goes through your mind should not be that she’s got involved with a blackmailing psychopath. Or that she _is_ a blackmailing psychopath, I guess.” That sounded a lot better in his head.

“And here I thought you knew my family,” Mycroft said wryly, but he was smiling again. “I have to admit that the details do make a certain amount of sense, Gregory. What I know of Milverton… Mummy is capable of that, but she never been very inclined towards working with a partner. There is a reason Sherlock and I rarely saw our father growing up.”

“You don’t sound like that would bother you if it was the case.”

“It wouldn’t. Were it not for the fact that she was breaking the law, it was actually a lucrative move on her part. Charles Milverton is widely known for being able to find out the weakness of anyone he wished. I have had no personal contact with him, but I do know of people who have made his acquaintance in one way or another. No one came out the better for it.”

Greg frowned a little. If he didn’t know better… “You _also_ sound like you admire her for doing this. You do realize that Charles Milverton has blackmailed hundreds, if not thousands, of people, right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said a touch too quickly. “Of course.”

He and Sherlock, what a pair. No doubt John was having a similar conversation with Sherlock. Only the Holmes brothers would become excited after discovering that there was a possibility their mother had been an international blackmailer. Greg pressed his lips together in an effort to stifle his urge to laugh. “Maybe Gregson’s wrong and she’s not involved with Milverton at all.”

“Possibly, but I suspect that he’s correct. Though if it does turn out that Mummy was Milverton, I’d prefer if that knowledge was kept from the general public.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said simply.

Of course. Greg could practically feel himself melting, though he made an attempt to remain stern. “It’s a police investigation. You can’t interfere with that.” Except his words were falling on deaf ears and he knew it, considering how many times Mycroft had intervened with Greg’s investigations. That and he knew the other reason Mycroft wanted to go, which was because he wanted to get his hands on the information his mother might have collected. He sighed, already foreseeing lot of headaches in his near future.

Mycroft chose not to respond to the gentle rebuke, instead brushing a kiss over Greg’s cheek before he slipped free of the embrace and left the room. Greg watched him go, growing increasingly unsettled but unable to put his finger on precisely why. He was loathe to point any fingers just yet, but he had the suspicion that there was more to this situation than Mycroft was letting on.


	18. Chapter 18

Their return to the Holmes estate was done with very little fanfare, not that John was expecting much. He, Greg and Molly were left standing downstairs in the mad rush to get up to the third floor, as even Jane appeared to be curious about what the truth was behind the story of Mummy Holmes. Gregson sputtered every step of the way, trying to regain control of the situation, but Sherlock and Mycroft just ignored him. John almost felt like telling him that it was useless to even bother. In a case like this, it made far more sense to just step aside and let them fight it out until they were both too exhausted to do anything other than listen.

He picked up his bag and Sherlock’s and sighed as he carried them in. “Here we go again.”

“Maybe it won’t be that bad this time,” Molly said hesitantly, though she didn’t sound like she was holding out much hope. John just looked at her and after a moment her face fell. “Okay, you’re right. This is going to be a disaster, especially if the rest of the pack decides to come around.”

“The rest of the pack?” Greg echoed.

Molly frowned a little. “Of course. Most werewolves have extended packs. I’m pretty sure Mycroft and Sherlock are no exception. Aunts and uncles and cousins… close family friends… Technically now that their alpha is gone, they would meet here at the place where she died. There’ll have to be a funeral and everything once the investigation is completed. Unless Mycroft decides to tell them not to come. It would be unorthodox, but…”

“Well, I for one hope he does exactly that,” said John. Frankly as far as he was concerned the shine had long since worn off the idea of meeting any members of the Holmes family, and it would’ve been a wasted effort anyway. Sherlock’s pack, with the sole exclusion of Mrs Hudson and possibly John’s family if Sherlock was asked while in the right mood, was already gathered underneath this roof. Anyone else would only serve to make the situation that much more unbearable for everyone. 

“Yes I’m sure you do, considering that most of them would be scandalized you haven’t had a bonding ceremony. They’d probably want to launch into planning one immediately. ” Molly was smiling playfully now as Greg and John exchanged looks of horror. “It’s very unusual for it to take this long. Most mates have it done right away.”

“I was concerned that’s what Mummy had in store for us,” Greg admitted. “Only it turned out she was much more invested in getting Sherlock and Mycroft bonded with Irene and Kate instead.”

“It doesn’t have to be a huge ceremony,” she offered. “Just like human weddings, it can be as short or as extravagant as you like.”

“Shorter is better,” John muttered. He might’ve been tempted to ignore the whole thing entirely. After he was shot, he’d given up on the idea of ever getting married. But he couldn’t help remembering how Sherlock had been kept from him after Moriarty’s attack simply because the two of them weren’t officially bonded. He never wanted that to happen again.

Molly shrugged and picked up her bag. “Like I said, it’s really up to you,” she repeated. “Werewolves are a traditional lot, but considering what just happened I doubt anyone will really expect you to have a huge ceremony. Besides, you’ll meet them all when Mycroft officially takes over as head of the pack.”

“Brilliant,” Greg said under his breath, rolling his eyes. It didn’t seem like the idea of having even more responsibility be shoved onto Mycroft’s shoulders thrilled him all that much. “What about you and Jane, then? Maybe we should just go ahead and make it a triple bonding ceremony. In and out and then we can all go get sloshed at the nearest pub.”

“I’m on board with that,” John said even as Molly sputtered.

“I’m not… Jane and I aren’t…”

“Oh you aren’t?” Greg asked, grinning. “Odd. Because let me tell you, I know Mycroft, Molly. I know exactly how many times he’s told Jane that she could bring someone along with her on a case. None. That’s basically him giving his approval of you, in case you weren’t aware.”

Molly’s fair skin had turned a bright shade of red that clashed with her hair. She looked between the two of them and gulped. “You think… Jane and I haven’t really talked about the future. I wasn’t sure…”

“She’s crazy about you,” John said immediately. Molly’s insecurity was all too familiar to him, mostly because he’d gone through the same thing himself not that long ago with Sherlock. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that someone so amazing could want someone so ordinary, and more than once he’d been left feeling inadequate. It had taken him a while to understand and come to terms with the fact that that was exactly why he was appealing in the first place. Sherlock didn’t need someone fantastic; he needed someone who could love him. John might not have known Jane well, but he could see that same attribute in her.

The thing about people like Sherlock, Jane and Mycroft was that they didn’t meet people who they could fall in love with very often. There was always something to keep the relationship from moving forward, whether it was a macabre sense of humour, devotion to work or a bizarre schedule. So when they did, the end result was sort of inevitable – even if it sometimes required a little more work on someone else’s part. He offered Molly an encouraging smile, hoping that she would be brave enough to broach the topic with Jane.

“I agree. That is, if you like her.” Greg raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I do. I know it hasn’t been very long, but…” Molly sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It hasn’t been long at all.”

John was about to tell her that he didn’t think that would be much of an issue, but he paused, the words dying unspoken, when he realized that the three of them had an observer. A young woman was standing in the doorway, watching in silence. When she realized that she had caught John's attention, she smiled. "Good evening sirs, Madam. I was just wondering if you wanted me to take you to the rooms where you'll be staying. Or at the very least, I can take your luggage...?" She trailed off and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Considering the death in the house, John was a little surprised that she was so composed and ready to greet guests. He smiled back at her. "Sure, that would be great. And I think for right now we're good, but Molly will probably need you to show her where she's staying later." Because this time there was no chance that he wasn't going to be in the same room as Sherlock. There was no Violet Holmes to mess around with their sleeping arrangements. Not that Sherlock would actually be sleeping now that he had a case to solve, but still.

"As you wish. You can leave your luggage there by the door. I'll have someone take it up later. My name is Mary Morstan, so if you need anything you can just... let me know." She flashed him another smile, warmer this time. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved," John said automatically. Sherlock had been so wired this morning that food had been the last thing on his mind, and now that he'd had more than two seconds to stand still his stomach was making its complaints loudly known. 

"I'll ask the cook to prepare a quick meal." Mary turned and walked back through the door she'd come from. John stared at the place where she'd been for a moment longer before he turned back to Molly and Greg, only to find that the two of them were watching him with an air of bemusement. He raised a questioning eyebrow, surprised when Greg shook his head and chuckled.

"You want to be careful there, John. Sherlock's preoccupied, not blind."

"What?" John blinked.

Molly giggled. "A triple bonding ceremony indeed," she teased, poking John lightly in the arm. "Only from what I just saw, Miss Morstan would enjoy being the one you're mated to."

"Oh come off it. She was only being polite, which she's paid to do," John said, rolling his eyes. 

"If that's the case, then you won't mind if I do start the planning?" Molly inquired.

"You'd want to?" Greg asked.

"It's interesting," she said defensively.

Greg glanced at John, then shrugged. "Molly, love, if you really want to plan something that's quiet and quick, be my guest."

There was a gleam in Molly's eyes. "I think I'll take you up on that."


	19. Chapter 19

When Molly was suitably convinced that John and Greg wouldn't really pay attention to her absence, she made the excuse that she had to go to the loo and slipped out of the room. Instead of finding the nearest toilet, she allowed her nose to lead her to the kitchen. Specifically, to the woman who was arranging a tray of sandwiches, a platter of cut up fruit, and some biscuits on a tray. For a moment, Molly lingered in the doorway and just _looked_ at Mary Morstan. She knew that Mary knew she was there, but Mary acted as though she was unaware of Molly's presence. 

Finally, having judged the silence had gone for long enough, Molly cleared her throat. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm working."

"You're working," Molly said sceptically, folding her arms in an effort to hide the slight tremble of her fingers. The last time she'd seen Mary, she'd been introducing her younger cousin to her boyfriend Jim Moriarty. So much had changed since then that it was difficult to believe it had happened just a few months ago. "What happened to your job at the shelter?"

"It didn't work out. I got fired a couple of days after I last saw you," said Mary, adding a pot of tea to the tray. "I was looking for a new position and came across this one, requesting someone who could help out with housework. Well, it seemed a lot more interesting than coddling old, broken pups around." She turned and shot Molly a challenging smile, tucking a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear. "I didn't have anything to do with what happened to Mrs Holmes, if that's what you're trying to imply."

"No!" Molly said, a little horrified by the idea. Though now that it was in her head... she forcefully shoved the thought aside and scowled. "Mary, that's not what I meant and you know that."

Mary just shrugged like she didn't care. "I haven't been here that long. I probably won't be drawn into the investigation. I just want to keep my job. I don't want anyone to know what I used to do, okay? As far as Mrs Holmes knew I had tons of experience with this shit. If anyone finds out that I lied I'll end up being fired, and I like working here. Don't say anything, Molly. You can just pretend you don't know me."

"What about John?" Molly pressed. She wasn't very good at lying. It was a skill that she'd never developed, even though some members of her family had proven to be masters at it. It was remarkable that she had managed to contain her surprise at seeing Mary in the first place. She didn't even know if she would be able to lie to Jane. "He hasn't recognized you yet, but he might."

"He barely spent two minutes talking to me," Mary said, rolling her eyes. "He was so distraught over the idea of being a werewolf that he wouldn't have known his own mother if she walked right in front of him. I bet he barely remembers anything from the shelter, much less the front desk girl he hardly interacted with. Don't worry so much, Molly, Christ. I'll never talk to you again if you mess this up for me. I mean it."

Molly sighed. Mary was stubborn enough to mean it, too. And while she didn’t typically see Mary often enough to care, it would cause uncomfortable friction with the rest of her family. She shuddered inwardly at the thought of the phone call from her mother that would ensue. "Alright, fine," she muttered. "I won't say anything. But if someone asks me outright, I'm not going to lie either. You should've been more honest."

"Well I guess we can't all be like you."

The bitterness in those words never failed to amaze Molly. She was and always had been deeply curious to know why Mary seemed to be jealous of her. Molly was the one who had a hard time finding a boyfriend, who worked in the morgue, whose only saving grace was the fact that she'd never developed acne as a teenager. Even the persistent extra few pounds around her hips and waist that she'd liked to get rid of was non-existent on Mary; her trim, curvy figure had been the envy for more than a few girls while they were growing up. She was half-tempted to shake Mary until she understood exactly where this bizarre envy stemmed from, but refrained.

"I won't lie for you," she repeated steadily, dropping her gaze so that she didn't have to look Mary in the eyes anymore.

"If you stopped seeking me out and running the risk of catching the attention of the _detective inspector_ in the other room, you won't have to," Mary replied. "Now if you don't mind, I have food to serve." She hefted the tray and brushed past Molly. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

Molly could have stopped her, but she decided against it. Pressuring Mary would not work out well and might even serve to make Mary do something foolish, like disappear in the middle of the night. She could only imagine how that would go over with the police and the Holmes brothers. It would be like painting a big red circle on her back. As she went to go find the loo – at least that part of her story could be true, even if John and Greg would probably wonder what was taking her so long – she wondered if Mary was being honest about her reasons for being here.

It wouldn’t be the first time Mary had got into some kind of trouble. Unlike Molly, who had never really seen the point in acting out, Mary seemed to enjoy pushing whatever boundaries she could. It earned her a reputation as a troublemaker early on. They were related through their mothers, but Mary’s mother had always been something of a question mark. She’d spent a lot of her time abroad for her job, leaving her only daughter behind at boarding school. What exactly she did, Molly had never been told.

But she did know that her aunt rarely visited when Molly was young, and it was only more recently that she’d begun coming around. Apparently now that she was retired she had a lot more free time and she felt it was best spent with family. That didn’t make it any less strange, though, considering that she had been around so little that Molly had been bitten by a werewolf outside of her family. Mary, on the other hand, was a born werewolf, her mother having been bit when she was young. That was the excuse her family had always given for why Mary was kind of wild, but it didn’t excuse Molly looking silly and straight-laced in comparison.

“It’s just my luck,” Molly said to her reflection as she washed her hands. The woman looking back at her wasn’t overly attractive, but she wasn’t a complete train wreck either. She pulled at a couple of strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, tucking them behind her ear, and sighed heavily. She was contemplating whether it was worth an attempt at putting more make-up on when someone knocked on the door. 

“Molly?” Jane’s voice was easily audible. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Molly unlocked the door with a tentative smile. “I was just trying to get my hair too cooperate, that’s all.”

“Looks fine to me,” Jane said with a cursory glance. “We’ve had a look at the scene, and I think Sherlock and Mycroft are done with trying to out-do each other with deductions. They’ve sat down with Greg and John. Did you want to come listen?”

“Oh,” Molly said, a little surprised. “Sure.”

Jane paused. “Is something wrong? You seem a little… out of sorts.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Molly.”

Shit at lying, indeed. Molly tried not to scowl. “I’m fine,” she repeated, more firmly this time. There was no need for Jane to know that she was wondering why she was even there. She wasn’t like Greg, who was a detective inspector, or John, who was Sherlock’s assistant. The only sort of help she could provide was useless, as the body was no doubt being packed up now that the police were done with the scene. She forced a smile, and it must have looked somewhat genuine because Jane finally nodded.

“Okay,” she said at last, not sounding entirely convinced. “Come on, then. We’ll never hear the end of it if we miss even one deduction.”


	20. Chapter 20

The examination of Violet’s room was perfunctory but detailed, which was both good and bad. Both Sherlock and Mycroft made sure they saw everything, but it had been so long since either of them had actually been into their mother's rooms that they couldn’t agree on whether anything was missing. It quickly became clear that while both men thought something had been taken, they weren’t sure what it was – or if it might have any relevancy to the fact that Violet was now dead. 

Basically, Greg thought wearily, they had nothing. He’d taken a quick poke around the room himself after the brief snack they’d indulged in, and it appeared that Violet Holmes ascribed to Sherlock’s method of filing. In other words, the room was a bloody mess and it was a miracle that she’d been able to find anything, never mind the rest of them. Sherlock claimed that his mother had known where everything was and that Greg just didn’t understand how genius worked. Greg surveyed the mess strewn across the floor and decided that he didn’t really want to know.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” John said, kneeling down to shuffle through a small stack of papers. Greg glanced over at him as John added, “This is what I have to live with every day.”

“You’re a braver man than me,” Greg said, thinking about Mycroft’s flat. He practically lived there now, considering that it had been well over a week since he’d bothered to go back to his own flat, and he knew for a fact that it had never looked like this. Mycroft was the sort of person who liked to have everything in a specific place.

John snorted. “That’s one word for it,” he muttered, making a face at whatever he’d found. He set the papers aside and reached for the next few. As long as they didn’t disturb anything, they had permission to look through whatever they liked. It might have been begrudgingly given by Gregson under Mycroft’s most threatening glare, but they had it nevertheless.

Most of the papers Greg had looked at so far seemed to be written in some sort of code. He suspected John was having a similar problem, and that Mycroft and Sherlock were likely already working on cracking it. He knelt down and picked up a stray piece, but at a glance it just looked like scribbles. A few of the characters vaguely resembled dancing stick figures, but each one was interspersed seemingly randomly with triangles, squares and little squiggly lines. He could’ve been staring at a grocery list or blackmail information on the pope for all he knew.

“Do you think Sherlock will be able to break this?” he asked. Jane had sent the information to the best code breakers that she and Mycroft knew of, but Sherlock – preferring a more hands-on process that he never failed to mock his brother about - would no doubt tackle it himself after he was finished sitting in on the interviews with the house staff. Greg could just imagine this investigation turning into a competition between them, a race to see who would figure it out first using their own methods. It was enough to make him want Gregson to win.

“I don’t know. Maybe, given enough time.” John sat back on his heels and exhaled in frustration. “I’ve got no idea where he’d even start, though. Christ but she was a mess. Even Sherlock isn’t this bad. You think someone was looking for something, or was it always like this?”

“How would you know?” Greg replied, shaking his head. Considering that Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t been too perturbed to find the state of Violet’s office, he suspected it was probably the latter. Which meant their job had just got a thousand times more difficult. If Violet was working with Milverton, no wonder she’d never been concerned about being found out. No one could find anything in this!

“Oh, wow!”

Greg turned around. “Molly?”

She was examining a little chest of drawers that had been tucked into the corner. It was about three feet high and four feet wide, dark brown with cherry engravings. Greg had given it a cursory glance when he first came into the room and, noting that it appeared to be stuffed to the brim with every object that had ever been emblazoned with a cat’s likeness, ignored it.

“Sorry. I just – did you see this? It’s quite neat…” She trailed off, holding up a little box that played music when she lifted the lid. A kitten danced across a tiny stage to the rhythm of the music. “I’ve never seen one like this before.”

“Custom-made?” John suggested, standing up and walking closer. “Hang on. Molly, can I just –” He took the box carefully when she offered it and ran his fingers along the bottom. After a moment, he frowned, shrugged and handed it back. “Thought there might be a false bottom. Harry had one like this when we were kids, but I guess not.”

For the first time Greg looked beyond the mess as he gave the room another, more thorough examination. “You’re not wrong,” he said slowly. “About it being custom, I mean. Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. What if Violet interrupted a theft or something like that? There are loads of valuable things around here.”

“I did notice something strange,” Molly volunteered. She set the music box down and pointed to the chest. She had removed the messier, top cover, revealing a second layer that was far more sparsely filled. “There was something here. You can tell by the pattern of the velvet. See how it’s been matted down?”

He did, and he noticed something else too. “Whatever it was, it was recently moved. Everything else in this old chest has a light layer of dust, but not right here. Wish we could tell what was taken out.” He ran a finger across the indentation. It was in a strange shape. Whatever had been there was round with two pointed triangles on top and large, about the size of a small dinner plate.

“I can tell you,” John said, sounding odd. While Molly and Greg were leaning over the trunk, he’d been nosing around the rest of the clutter. Now he got down on one knee and reached underneath a stand that was covered with a dusty, dark blue cloth. He swept out a pile of broken pottery fragments and started sorting them into small piles by colour. He ended up with four piles: one white, one cream, one black and one a brownish red. “I think they were supposed to be cats.”

Greg picked up one of the largest pieces and concluded John was right. The fragment had been painted with half of a cat’s face. One accusing gold eye started up at him. “Do you think they were broken by accident?”

“That’s pretty deliberate,” said Molly. “It took me a couple of minutes to figure out how to get into the bottom part of the chest. There was a hidden catch.” She shrugged. “Unless you think that maybe Mrs Holmes got angry one day and destroyed them for some other reason.”

“Maybe,” Greg said, but he didn’t think so. He’d always considered his intuition to be fairly strong when it came to cases; it was his intuition that had led him to trusting a scrawny little drug addict who wouldn’t shut up with his deductions, after all. He wasn’t sure how, but he thought that these weird little figurines might have had something to do with Violet’s death. It was an avenue worth investigating, at least. 

“You think we should ignore the Milverton theory for now,” John said knowingly, wincing as he got back up. He dusted off his knees. 

“Who knows, it might be true. I wouldn’t put it past a Holmes,” Greg replied. “But I was always taught to keep my mind open and investigate all possible evidence, no matter how insignificant it seems. Sherlock and Mycroft will be looking into that theory, and God knows what Gregson will do… but I think it’s worth checking these out. Maybe we’ll stumble on a conspiracy and shock our mates by figuring it out first.” He smirked.

John huffed out a laugh. “I doubt that.”

“It could happen. I think we should,” Molly said determinedly. When both men looked at her, she flushed and stammered, “I-I mean, you should.”

“No, you had it right the first time,” Greg told her with a grin, stooping down to collect the rest of the fragments. Who knew, perhaps they held the key to discovering why Violet Holmes had been murdered.


	21. Chapter 21

The next morning when John woke up, he was not surprised to find that Sherlock had not bothered coming to bed. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that when Sherlock became wrapped up in a case, it didn’t matter what else had to suffer so long as the case ended up solved. He devoted everything he had to solving each crime that interested him, and in this situation it was even worse considering that he was trying to solve the murder of his own mother.

“I’m guessing that I’m going to be spending a fair few days alone,” he muttered to the empty bedroom, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up. He rubbed the back of his neck and squinted, feeling the beginnings of a familiar itch underneath his skin. The full moon wasn’t that far off, and at least then Sherlock would have no choice but to relax a little bit. John was already looking forward to having the chance to roam around the large Holmes estate with his mate.

He got dressed and left their room, using his nose to track his errant alpha down. Sherlock was in the small room he had claimed as an office, deeply immersed in one of the pages that he’d lifted from Violet’s office when Gregson wasn’t paying attention. He was so involved that he didn’t even realize John had walked in until John was standing right next to him. He startled under the touch of John’s hand on his shoulder, head snapping up with a wild-eyed look that made John’s lips quirk into a grin.

“John?” Sherlock said after several seconds of bewildered silence, blinking at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I only wanted to make sure you were still alive,” John replied, leaning down and giving him a kiss. He made a face as he pulled away. “You need to brush your teeth. And shower.”

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I know. Are you making any progress?”

“Some. It seems that what we initially thought was _a_ code is actually several, all twisted together to form something new.” Sherlock sounded grudgingly respectful as he gestured to the papers. “It’s what I would expect of Mummy, honestly, but it means that there has to be a key. Some of these are definitely directed to someone; they weren’t just personal records. There has to be a way to make it legible.”

“Has Mycroft had any luck?”

Sherlock sniffed a little disdainfully. “No. He hasn’t heard back yet from the people Jane contacted for him.” Every word was dripping with contempt and John had to hide a smile. 

“Well, if you need my help you know where to find me,” he said, rubbing lightly at Sherlock’s shoulders. The size of the knots there concerned him, and he figured that later on he might have to coax his mate into the bedroom for a good rubdown. For the time being, it was better to let Sherlock continue working. “Not that I’m sure I’d be much help considering what you’re doing.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Sherlock said stiffly, like he was only saying it because he thought he should, but he softened the words by turning to press a gentle kiss against the tender inner flesh of John’s wrist. John shivered at the sweet brush of lips. It really wasn’t fair that Sherlock had the ability to incite wanting in him that easily. 

“Have fun.” Figuring he’d better leave before he gave in to the urge to sink down between Sherlock’s thighs and thoroughly distract him in a way that not even the world’s best consulting detective could ignore, he kissed his mate one more time and then left the room. He left the door open just a crack to let some fresh air in before he went downstairs to find out what everyone else was up to.

He ended up in the kitchen, where one of the cooks and Mary were putting breakfast together. She grinned when she saw him walk in and said cheerfully, “Good morning, sir. Are you interested in eating this morning? I tried to tempt your alpha into having something a couple of hours ago, but when he threw a pen at my head I figured it was best to let him be.”

John choked on a laugh and shook his head with an apologetic smile. “Yeah, he gets that like. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. Breakfast? We have eggs and toast and fresh fruit.”

“Sure.” John sat down at the table, pleased when she set a cup of tea in front of him immediately. It was good tea, strong and hot, and he sipped at it carefully while he waited for the food to be ready. Greg stumbled in a couple of minutes later, just as Mary was setting his plate down, looking so thoroughly wrecked that John merely raised an eyebrow in query. Greg shook his head and sank into a chair with a faint groan, covering his eyes with an arm until Mary put a cup of tea down for him.

“Mycroft has his own method of working out frustration,” he mumbled then, pouring in a heaping spoonful of sugar. Even though it had to be hot he drank half of it without pause, and looked marginally better for it when he lowered the cup again.

“At least you got to see your mate last night,” John replied, biting into a buttery piece of toast. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like for Sherlock to be so rough. So possessive. He could remember the first heat they’d spent together, when Sherlock had been so desperate for him that he’d taken John right there on the sitting room floor. That desperation had never faded, but there was a softer, sweeter edge to it now that, while enjoyable in its own way, was not quite the same.

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg sighed and propped himself up on an elbow, looking moderately more alert. With a quick glance towards the chef and Mary, he told John in a low tone, “Mycroft said that Gregson is close to making an arrest. When the police searched the house, they found the gun that killed Violet hidden in the room of one of the maids.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean she did it.”

Greg nodded. “She was elusive, though, during the interview. Personally I think he’s just pissed that Sherlock and Mycroft took over the Milverton angle so quickly, and he’s looking to wrap it up fast before they get the credit. And who knows, maybe he’s right. Wouldn’t be the first time someone killed their employer.”

“Did you make any leeway on searching the grounds?” John asked. 

“Gregson was pretty thorough,” Greg admitted begrudgingly. “I took a quick look yesterday, just skimmed the windows on the inside – and let me tell you, there’s too damn many. It does look like someone could’ve broken in through one of the windows, but it’s pretty easy to stage a break-in. I figured I’d take a second look today. Interested?”

“Sure.” The thought of being outside was appealing, might help to soothe the restless energy that hadn’t yet settled. He ate his breakfast quickly and got up, following Greg outdoors. It was a cool, crisp day and he wondered what it would be like as a wolf. Would the frosted grounds feel chilly against his paws, or would he even notice it thanks to his thick coat? He couldn’t wait to find out.

It still seemed strange to think that not so long ago, he’d hated everything there was about being a wolf. Being forced to change every month was terrifying and disturbing, something he had fought against with all his might: even though, in the end, the result was always the same. It was only after meeting Sherlock and spending a few nights with him that he had come to understand the true joy, the sense of _freedom_ , that could come from being a wolf under the right circumstances. 

Not to mention, being in his lupine form now would’ve helped a lot. His sense of smell was boosted even as a human, but it was no match for when he was a wolf. He and Greg could sniff out any peculiar scents no problem if they were on four legs instead of two, but by the time the full moon rolled around chances were any scents would have long since faded. He paused, rolling the idea around in his mind, before he turned to Greg.

“I wonder if it was a werewolf that killed Violet. Or do you think a human would’ve known to time it right to make sure that their scent was gone before the full moon?”

Greg considered that as he swept his eyes over the ground. “Good question. It would certainly be easier for a wolf to break in., but ruling out a human entirely is not a great idea.” He stooped down suddenly, picking something up off the ground. “Look at this.”

John looked, his eyes widening slightly. “Is that a piece of that pottery we found?”

“Yes,” Greg confirmed. “I think we’re on track.”


	22. Chapter 22

Mycroft stood at the window for several minutes, watching the progress of his mate and brother-in-law around the grounds. Sometimes it appeared as though they were actively searching for something, but at other times they looked like they were simply enjoying each other's company: laughing and chatting, looking every inch the surprisingly normal men that they were. It was grounding at a time when Mycroft felt like he might snap, and he let himself lean against the glass and indulge until the door opened behind him and Jane slipped in. 

She smelled of mating, of musk and Molly Hooper, and Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at her reflection. There was a small smile on her lips, but for Jane that was the equivalent of shouting happiness from a rooftop. She had always been something of a secretive woman, prone to keeping both accomplishments and disappointments close to her, and it was one of the reasons he enjoyed her company for more than just an assistant. He had confidence in the fact that every word he spoke to her would go no further, not unless he wanted it to. That was difficult to find in their line of work.

"You mated?" he asked, not quite capable of hiding the flicker of surprise in his voice. To be honest, not really trying to. It was second nature to smooth over his natural reaction, but Jane would know him well enough to be able to tell either way.

Her smile grew just a little. "Yes."

"Congratulations, my dear."

"Thank you." Jane closed the door, smoothing her hands over her skirt. 

"So it's going to be a triple ceremony now," he mused, amused when just a hint of a blush crossed her cheekbones. The thought was appealing, mostly because it meant that the focus would be more equally distributed among three couples. Hell, Mycroft wouldn't have minded if someone else wanted to join in, though he doubted anyone would've been brave enough to take him up on the offer. There was a reason that not many people were all that close to the Holmes family. 

"It would seem so. Molly seemed quite anxious to begin planning when I left her. I think John and Greg pretty much told her she could have at it, and they would just show up wherever." Laughter sparkled in her dark eyes. "She... makes me happy."

"I'm glad," Mycroft said, finally turning around, and he meant it. Their line of work could be lonely, and that was never more apparently then when Greg was around. Though they had always tried not to make Jane feel like a third wheel, he was aware that sometimes a sense of exclusion was inevitable. She needed someone like Molly, someone who was dependable and solid but who possessed her own little quirks. Above all, Molly Hooper could love. Deeply. And that was what Jane needed the most.

Jane dipped her head in acknowledgement for a moment, and when she looked up again her joy had been capped. Her professional mask was in place. She said, "I made contact with several people this morning. None of them have made much progress researching Charles Milverton. He really is something of a dark horse. It's amazing when you think about it. All this time and no one has worked it out."

"Because no one has dared to get that close," Mycroft replied wryly. "Milverton always knew just when to make someone back off. The fact that no one has done so means that either Milverton is dead, or we're so far off the mark he doesn't care to bother correcting us." It troubled him that he was no closer to knowing which one it was, though he had his suspicions that it was the former. He knew his mother well enough to know that it was just the kind of joke she would have loved most, being able to put one over on her clever sons for this long. 

"What will you do?"

"I'm not sure. Though I realize that leaving was for the best and that we couldn't have known what would happen, I wish now that we had stayed. This would've been much easier had the local police not got involved."

"I can have their investigation stopped if you wish. It wouldn't take much effort."

God knew they had done it before. It was one of the things Greg complained about the most. "I may ask you to do so in the future, but for the time being you can let their investigation continue. I doubt that they will find much."

"Yes sir."

"Request that they keep looking," he added, because there was more than one way to figure out if Charles Milverton was actually Violet Holmes. He turned, surveying the library's walls and the mountains of books. If that was the case, the blackmail information she had collected had to be _somewhere_ better than a messy office. "And in the meantime, you and I have a little searching of our own to do."

\--

Sherlock was only vaguely aware of the hours passing as he worked to crack his mother’s code. He was making progress now, he felt, having realized that the dancing characters represented an _idea_ and not an actual word, the way he’d originally thought. He had already decoded a handful of letters, including one that contained very personal information about one of the men that Mycroft worked with, someone who would be extremely uncomfortable with the world knowing that he had three illegitimate children and a fourth on the way.

This time he registered the sound of the door opening behind him, but he didn’t respond until a familiar and unwelcome scent teased his nose. He raised his head and for a moment, his vision remained obscured by a dizzying array of numbers and letters and dancing stick figures before it cleared. He blinked and frowned. Irene grinned back at him from where she was lazily sprawled against his desk, her head cocked to the side in just the right way for her hair to cascade invitingly down her throat.

“Hello Darling,” she said, soft and coaxing. One of her hands trailed lazily across the top of the letter he was working on. Her fingernails had been painted with a deep purple polish and they were round, but no less sharp or lethal. “I knew you’d be in here, toiling away. You’ll never change, will you?”

“What are you doing here, Irene?” he asked, refusing to rise to the bait. The taunt. In this house he was automatically on the defensive from years of fielding comments and outright protests from his parents on the subject of his work. Violet in particular was of the opinion that he should have done something more useful with his time. Even his more noteworthy cases had done little to impress her, and she’d made her feelings on the matter known. Irene had been present for more than one fight concerning the matter, and it annoyed him now that she would try to use it against him.

Irene’s smile grew, like she knew exactly what was going through his mind, and she said, “I came to pay my respects to your mother, of course. Whether you like it or not, I did grow up knowing her and when I was younger we were close.”

That was technically true, but Sherlock was positive there was more to the matter than that. He narrowed his eyes at her, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. But Irene had always been frustratingly fond of those expensive perfumes that helped to block the more subtle nuances of scent, and that alone made her more difficult to read, never mind the fact that she had always been one of those rare people who could hide themselves from him. “I would’ve thought that you’d take the chance to leave now that there’s nothing keeping you here.”

"You think?" Irene said, and she seemed almost sad for a moment. "That's how I wanted it to be. But then, you know what your mother is like. The woman is relentless. She nags and nags until you have no choice but to give her the answer she wants to hear... or you put an end to the problem."

Sherlock stilled, fixing her with an unblinking stare. "What did you do?"

She slid around the desk until they were on the same side, and that was his mistake. "I did what I had to," she said, and the needle was thin, barely felt, but the burning after was surprisingly sharp. Irene glided just out of reach when he fumbled for her and he crashed to his knees, the room blurring, but not before he saw her shuffling through the papers on his desk. She searched intently until she found what she was looking for, whisking a few papers into her blouse.

"I'm sorry," she said, quiet, and pressed a kiss to her index and middle fingers. She tapped said fingers against his forehead and walked away.


	23. Chapter 23

After Jane reluctantly pried herself out of the bed and went to go find Mycroft, Molly spent only a few more minutes lounging around before she figured it was time that she got up as well. It was still early, but she’d spent a good portion of the night poking around auction sights. She got dressed and rubbed her hands together as she sat down at the desk, hoping that some of the emails she had sent off before letting Jane coax her into bed might’ve earned them some results. At this point, she was willing to take anything.

The computer was quick to boot up and she signed into her email immediately, pleased when she realized that there were a handful of responses waiting. The first couple weren’t too promising. But then. She sat up straight, her eyes widening as she scanned the third. Her heart started to thump with excitement. If what she was reading was true, then there was a tiny chance that she might have just blown this case wide open. Without even bothering to pause long enough to put shoes on, she jumped up and darted out the door.

It was cold enough for Molly's feet to begin burning the second she stepped onto the grass, but she didn't let that stop her. What she'd found out was too intriguing not to be shared immediately. She scented the air and then ran lightly across the grounds, heading east. As she grew closer she could make out John and Greg examining the fence that bordered the grounds, both of them preoccupied with one spot in particular. Molly could tell that it was scuffed, probably from someone trying to get in or out, but that was far less important than what she had to say. She came to a dramatic stop as both men swung around to face her.

"That pottery we found was definitely a part of this," she announced breathlessly. "Or, well, I don’t know if it’s a part of _this_ but it’s definitely a part of something. I've been doing research all night and I found out that those fragments? They're from a very expensive set of Chinese heirlooms that are estimated to be valued at about half a million pounds each."

"Jesus, that’s a lot of money," John said, reaching out and steadying her with a hand to her arm. Molly shot him a grateful smile.

"Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing her pounding heart to calm to a more acceptable pace that wouldn't make her feel like it was going to bounce right out of her chest. "Apparently some of them went missing from China almost six months ago and no one has been able to track them down since. Officials think that a gang called the Black Lotus might be responsible for smuggling them out of the country."

"The Black Lotus? I've heard of them. We were issued a warning not that long ago to keep an eye out for any of their merchandise. They're a huge problem. It's estimated they've smuggled billions of pounds worth of items out of China, and some of it _has_ turned up in England..." Greg looked thoughtful even as he raised an eyebrow at Molly. "You don't think Violet Holmes was part of the gang, though, do you? I mean, I know she was a pain and there's a possibility she might actually be a famous blackmailer, but a smuggler? I think that's stretching it."

"No. I figure that Mrs Holmes ended up with the pottery legitimately," Molly replied. "I mean, it's valuable. But even though half a million pounds sounds like a huge sum...” She shrugged. “There was mention of a jade hair pin that's worth about a couple million pounds alone. Compared to that, this pottery business is peanuts. And I don't think it's the kind of thing you would kill over, either. Unless maybe she recognized what was going on and decided to blackmail a member of the Black Lotus... but then I don't think Mrs Holmes would be that stupid, do you?"

"Stupid? No. Cocky? Yes," Greg muttered. 

"That's only one explanation," John pointed out. "The pottery that we found was all broken, wasn't it?"

"What we found was, yeah," Molly said.

"If they just wanted to kill her because she was blackmailing them, why bother going through the trouble of finding those specifically and destroying them? It doesn't make any sense. That only confirmed that we would connect the murder to the Black Lotus gang. They would’ve been better off to leave the pottery alone completely, and then none would have noticed.”

Molly snuck a quick look at Greg, relieved to see that he looked as confused as she felt. "You think there's some other reason?" she asked.

John shrugged. "I don't know, but it seems to me it's pretty silly for an internationally known smuggling gang to worry about some statue worth half a million pounds. They're bulky and they'd be hard to get out of the country without someone taking notice and they would only appeal to a certain market of buyers, and surely there would be a better or at least _easier_ way to turn a profit. There's got to be a reason, but I didn't understand what it might be until you mentioned that jade hair pin, Molly. What better way to smuggle something than to put it inside something else? Something you wouldn't necessarily care went missing? Those statues could easily hide a hair pin."

"So you're suggesting, what, that they hid a priceless artefact inside of another priceless artefact and Violet ended up with them, so they killed her to get them back?" Greg said. He'd clearly meant for it to sound like an outrageous idea, but the problem was that it didn't. All of them had been around Sherlock Holmes long enough to know that just about anything was possible when a criminal grew desperate enough.

"If that's the case, then they must have found it," Molly said slowly. 

"Or maybe that's why they killed Violet," John said. "Because they didn't, and they thought she'd hidden it or knew where it was."

“Do you think that’s possible?”

John shrugged. “At this point I’m starting to think that it’s just as likely as any other scenario we could come up with. We don’t know when the pottery was destroyed or who did it. Molly, do you think you could find out if anyone else has purchased something similar from an auction house and been robbed?”

“You’re thinking maybe Mrs Holmes wasn’t the only target,” said Molly. It would require a fair amount of research on the internet to do what John was asking, but she found that she didn't really mind. She liked that out of the three of them, she was really the only one savvy enough to be able to do it. Maybe there was something that she could contribute to this after all.

“I don’t know. But on the off chance she wasn’t, it’s worth looking into. At least then we would know for sure that it wasn’t an isolated incident.”

“It still wouldn’t prove that she was killed by the gang, though,” Greg murmured. He sighed and scratched his head. “Every time I start to think we might be getting somewhere, this case only becomes more convoluted. I'm beginning to think that it's going to come down to a bunch of people pointing fingers at each other, and because every one of them had an equal reason to want her dead we won't be able to figure it out."

"Remind me never to get that many dangerous people angry," Molly said, fidgeting a little. Now that the excitement had worn off, her feet were freezing. "Did you guys find anything out here?"

"Just this." John showed her the fragment he'd picked up. "And Greg noticed that. It looks like someone tried to scramble over the wall."

"It rained up here just before we arrived, so this must've been recent." Molly stepped closer, putting her nose right up against the fence, and breathed in deep. The scent was faded, barely noticeable, but it struck a chord of familiarity in her. She just couldn't remember where from. She frowned. "Smells like..."

"John!"

All three of them turned around at the shout. Mary was running across the grass towards him, waving her hand to get their attention. Molly tensed automatically, but Mary didn't even look at her. She was completely focused on John.

"What's wrong?" John asked, looking alarmed.

"It's Mr Holmes - Sherlock," Mary gasped out. "He's been poisoned."


	24. Chapter 24

John's seen men die before. He’d watched men be blown to unidentifiable bits, be torn apart by a wolf during the full moon, bleed out right underneath his useless hands because sometimes they were just too far gone to be saved. That was all part of war. After a while every morning came with a grim sort of acceptance, the realization that there was a distinct possibility no one in his troop might return. Doctor or not, there was only so much protection afforded in a war zone. 

But poison was new to him. There wasn’t really time for that in Afghanistan. Death was often immediate, bloody and brutal; when it was slow, it was because the damage was not quite enough to finish the job right away. Why bother to poison someone when it was so much easier to pick up a gun and put a bullet in their brain? And that was the thing: John knew how to deal with a bullet wound or shrapnel or the myriad of other injuries that could garnered at war. But _poison_. How could he combat that?

He buried his face in his cupped hands and exhaled shakily, feeling weak and dizzy as the adrenaline surge began to fade. He didn’t really remember much about the past hour or so after Mary found them, but he knew for certain that he hadn’t been allowed to see Sherlock yet. Paramedics had been called, and his alpha was whisked away before John could see or touch or talk to him. Mycroft, Greg and John had followed in a car, and suffice to say John had no memory of the drive to the hospital. All he could think about was the possibility of Sherlock dying while they were waiting in traffic.

His palms stung from where he was digging his nails in so hard, but the pressure actually felt good. Grounding. No one would tell them anything yet, but he suspected from the numerous pity-filled looks he’d been receiving from the nurses that the prognosis wasn’t good. Poison was sneaky like that; he knew from his days as a medical student that it could often be difficult to fight because antidotes varied. It wasn’t as easy as slapping some stitches and a bandage on and calling it a day.

At least this time he knew that he was being kept from Sherlock because the doctors were still with him and not because they still weren’t officially bonded yet. Of course, last time it was different because Sherlock was fine and John wasn’t. It was appallingly difficult to be on the other side of the bed. But Mycroft had left them as soon as they got to the hospital, and John knew that he would’ve come to them had he learned anything. 

Still. As soon as Sherlock got out of the hospital, the two of them were making it official. John couldn’t handle this level of stress anymore. He honestly could not say what he would do if the doctor were to come out and tell them in that quiet, patient voice all doctors used when delivering bad news that Sherlock had died. He’d spent so many months becoming accustomed to building his life around another person that he didn’t know if he could go back to the way it used to be. 

His nose twitched, bringing a flood of new scents in, including the smell of hot coffee. He blinked and let his hands drop, realizing that there was a cup being held less than an inch from his face. He ran his eyes up at the arm attached and saw Greg standing right in front of him, like he was trying to protect John or at least offer himself as a buffer between John and the hospital. Slowly John reached up and took the cup, automatically wrapping his hands around it for the warmth.

“There you go,” Greg said softly, and John got the feeling that it wasn’t the first time Greg had attempted to get his attention. He couldn’t find it in himself to apologize, though, and fortunately Greg didn’t seem to expect it. He just sat down again beside John and sighed, sipping from his own cup of coffee.

After a couple minutes of staring blankly at the floor, John said, “Is it any better than the shit they had at the hospital I trained at?”

“Well, can’t say I’ve ever been there. But if there’s one thing that’s consistent about hospitals, it’s the crappy coffee.” Greg mustered up a weak smile that soon turned into a brittle frown. “John, look. I’m not going to tell you that it’s going to be fine, because I don’t know that for sure. I’d rather not to lie to you.”

“I appreciate that,” John replied, hoping that Greg understood he meant it for more than just the coffee and the promise not to lie. Hard as it was to sit here and wait for news, it would be a thousand times more difficult if he had to do it all by himself. He was so grateful for Greg’s soothing presence that he didn’t think he could put it into words. 

Greg just nodded and took another drink. “I will say, though, that Sherlock is one determined kid. I’ve seen him go through things that, by all rights, no one should have been able to survive. When I met him, he was so strung out on cocaine it was a bloody miracle he remembered his own name. He got through that and he didn’t even have anyone waiting for him on the other side.”

“You told me that once before,” said John. He’d always meant to corner Sherlock about it, but one thing after another had come up and it slipped his mind.

“Yeah. He used to say it helped him think, made his brain work.” Greg made a face. “I don’t know whether or not that’s true. Personally I think he was so bored he didn’t know what to do with himself and drugs made life a little more interesting. Either way, the two of us met on a crime scene. He tried to tell me who the murderer was and he knew so many details about it we ended up arresting him.”

John laughed a little. “That sounds about right.”

“It was a good day,” Greg said with a fond look. “I think about it every time he pisses me off. We didn’t hold him long. There was just no evidence against him. And besides, it turned out he was right about who the killer was. Almost made me regret listening to him because he was at my crime scenes _constantly_ after that. I finally told him he either had to stop shooting up or stay the fuck away from my cases. Predictably, that night he broke into my flat.”

“You mean he stayed with you through detox?”

“It was me or Mycroft, and it only took me meeting Mycroft a couple times to realize why Sherlock figured I was the better choice. I mean, I love my mate but he’s not exactly the most comforting person in the world. And it helped, too, that I’m not an alpha.” Greg squirmed a little, trying to settle himself into a better position against the hard plastic chairs. 

“You were a human,” said John, frowning. “Of course you weren’t.”

“No, but you know what Sherlock’s like. I’m pretty sure the bastard deduced a long time ago that I wasn’t going to be an alpha even if I was changed. He probably had me figured for a beta until I started dating Mycroft. It just meant that I was less threatening to him when he was sick. Even at his weakest, it wouldn’t have been that hard for Sherlock to overpower me.”

“I never would have expected it of him. Being a drug addict, I mean."

Greg shrugged. “My point is, Sherlock’s come through worse. Just try to keep that in mind, okay?” He looked up and John did too, his stomach clenching nervously when he saw a doctor and Mycroft bearing down on them. Mycroft’s expression was blank, his usual composed mask, but there was something about him that told John it wasn’t good news. He stood up at the same time as Greg.

“John, this is Doctor Cormier. He’s been looking after Sherlock,” Mycroft told them.

“Is he… okay?” John asked, half afraid to hear the answer.

“It was a difficult process. We nearly lost him twice. We’ve managed to stabilized him now, but he’s slipped into a coma,” the doctor said quietly. “Unless we can identify the poison and soon, preferably within the next 24 hours, I’m afraid he may not make it.”


	25. Chapter 25

The shattered expression on John’s face when he finally made it in the door made Molly hurt. She’d been upstairs on her laptop, hoping that it might serve as a distraction, when she noticed the headlights pulling in, and curiosity alone drove her out of her room. Jane was already waiting in the front hall by the time she got there, and together they watched as John walked straight past them and went up the stairs. It was like he didn’t even realize that they were there. 

Less than thirty seconds later, just long enough for Molly to grow nauseous with fear, Greg and Mycroft came in behind him. Though Greg looked every bit as upset as John had, Mycroft wore a calm mask that was actually pretty convincing. Had it not been for the raw grief permeating his scent, she might have actually believed he didn’t care one wit about his brother. But it was enough to let her know that Sherlock was, however temporarily, alive.

Jane stepped forward to greet them both, and Mycroft said, “Have you had any luck finding Irene Adler?”

“No,” Jane said. She, like her boss, was too composed to show any outward signs of frustration or upset. But Molly could still see it, the way they were all shaking apart, and it was frightening. She hung back near the wall and just watched.

“Not at all?”

Jane shook her head. “I have our best units on it, sir, but none of them have been able to report anything back to me. She – after departing from the house, it’s like she climbed straight on an airplane that flew her out of the country and beyond our reach entirely.”

“Keep looking. We have less than twenty-four hours,” Mycroft said, and Molly wanted to throw up on the floor. From the heavy way in which Mycroft spoke, she could tell that he was halfway convinced there would be no saving Sherlock this time.

In an effort to keep it together, if only because she didn’t think a fit of sobbing would benefit the situation, she looked away and took a couple of slow, deep breaths. She glimpsed a shadow lingering at the far door, and their eyes connected briefly before Mary turned around and left. Molly stared after her, her mind whirring, and by the time she thought to pay any more attention to the other people in the room, Mycroft, Jane and Greg had already gone.

For once in her life, she could honestly say that she was not disappointed that she had been left behind. She strode over to the door where Mary had been standing and down the dark hall, which opened up into a much smaller room off the kitchen that seemed to be used as a storage area. Mary was there, had her head down and was acting like rearranging the spices was the most fascinating job in the world. She acted like she had no idea Molly was standing right behind her.

Finally, unwilling to wait any longer for Mary to be the first one to speak, Molly said, “You know, most people usually don’t like it when the cinnamon goes after the coriander. But considering that you’re not really a servant, I guess making your employer happy wouldn’t matter much to you.”

“Just a mistake,” Mary said, though she didn’t switch the two spices back around.

“Really? Kind of like how I made a mistake in not telling anyone about you?” 

“You promised –”

“That was before I realized you knew way more about what was going on than you let on,” Molly said, sharp and cold and _furious_. “Tell me, did you let Irene in and out of the house? Did you tell her everything she wanted to know about the grounds? Or maybe you just left the door open by accident and then covered it all up, made it seem like someone had scaled the wall.”

“Molly –”

Did you help her poison Sherlock?”

“No!” Mary turned around then, finally, looking terrified. “I didn’t…”

“Stop lying to me! I saw the expression on your face when Mycroft and Jane were talking. You know, I wouldn’t have even thought about asking you for details if your curiosity hadn’t got the better of you.” She took a step closer, noticing with satisfaction the way that Mary grimaced and tried to widen the gap between them automatically. “Tell me the truth, Mary.”

“I am! I didn’t poison Sherlock, Molly. I didn’t have anything to do with it.” There were big tears in her eyes now and Molly shook her head, torn between amazement and disappointment. Someone else might have been fooled, but the last time Mary had cried she was eight years old and had just fallen out of a tree. This was an act. Why did she always allow herself to be blinded by people? Why hadn’t she realized that Mary’s presence here was just too coincidental? 

“What, were you hoping to get John to yourself if Sherlock dies?”

Mary flinched. “That’s not it at all!” she snapped, her tears miraculously disappearing to be replaced with anger. “You’re all wrong. It was just a stupid job, Molly.”

“A job,” Molly repeated.

“Yes. It’s what I do. People hire me to do whatever. I’m good at it. Or I was, right up until I made the mistake of accepting an offer of employment from your old boyfriend.”

“My old –” Molly stopped, her mouth falling open, because there was only one person who could accurately fit that description. 

“Yeah,” Mary said with a heavy sigh, running a hand through her short blonde hair. “Moriarty didn’t even want that much from me. Right after Watson hooked up with Holmes, he had me slip a couple of things into his luggage. Trackers, microphones, that sort of thing. And I tailed them a couple of times, reported the information back to him.” Her lips curled into a sneer. “But it was enough. When Moriarty went down, no one wanted anything to do with me. I had to take the first offer someone made me.”

“Which was from Irene.”

“Unfortunately. Being a maid isn’t exactly something I’m jumping to do, but Irene’s got a lot of connections and she promised she’d put a good word out if I agreed to help.” She spread her arms. “I admit it, okay? Irene Adler hired me to infiltrate this house. She was being blackmailed by that bitch and she wanted to know where the material was being kept. That’s all.”

Molly stared at her with narrowed eyes. She was ashamed to admit that she still had a hard time telling whether or not Mary was being honest. “So what went wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She held up a hand to forestall Molly’s objection, adding, “I get that you probably don’t believe me when I say that, but I’m telling the truth. I really don’t. All I know is that Mrs Holmes was blackmailing Irene to be here and Irene wanted the pictures or whatever back. I was just supposed to figure out where the stuff was kept and then make sure no one was around when Irene went to get it.”

“Which is why no one knows what the hell happened the night Violet Holmes died,” Molly guessed, knowing that she was right. “And yet you didn’t think that it was important to tell the police that? Mary, for god’s sake. You might be covering for a murderer!”

“I’m a _criminal_ ,” Mary hissed. “Pay for hire. Not only do I run the risk of being thrown in prison, do you think anyone would ever hire me again if they knew I couldn’t lie my way out of a fucked up situation successfully?” She threw Molly a disdainful look. “I would’ve been fine, too, if it weren’t for the fact that you insisted on showing up here. Why couldn’t you just stay in London where you belong?”

“Why couldn’t you be a decent, law abiding citizen?” Molly snapped back. “What about Sherlock?”

“What about him? I told you, I didn’t know Irene was going to come back. As far as I was concerned, everything between us was done and she had what she came to get. How was I supposed to know she didn’t get the chance to grab her shit before she left? Either way, it’s not my fault that Holmes had the bad luck to be in the same room as whatever she wanted to find.” Her smile was cool, cocky. “Irene doesn’t let anyone stand between her and what she wants. I like that about her.”

“You would,” Molly muttered, not bothering to keep the contempt from her voice. She stared hard at her cousin. “Did Irene kill Violet?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

“You should care. Because if she did, and she kills Sherlock too, Mycroft and John will tear her apart.”

Mary lifted her chin. “That’s not my problem.”

“It might be,” Molly said softly, and Mary stiffened. “Where is she, Mary? Tell me, and I might ask Jane to be patient when she tells Mycroft about you.”

“You’re going to tell them?” Mary demanded. “I’m your cousin!”

“Only when it helps you.” Molly took another step forward, cornering Mary back against the shelf. It was probably a dangerous, stupid move. Mary hadn’t given much detail about what she did ‘for hire’, but it wasn’t a stretch to think she was capable of killing someone. And yet, she was not afraid. She was angry but calm, focused. “Tell me where Irene Adler is, Mary.”


	26. Chapter 26

The expression of quiet rage on Mycroft’s face as Mary told her story worried Greg more than he wanted to let on. The full moon was only two nights away, and that meant Mycroft’s wolf was dangerously close to the surface. Mary seemed to realize that there was an alpha less than five feet away that wanted to tear her throat out, because she kept her distance. Molly and Jane were blocking the door, preventing her from fleeing the room entirely, but that made her no less reluctant to approach Mycroft. 

How had they missed this? That was the question Greg had been asking himself from the moment that Mary started talking, when the first words out of her mouth were an admittance that she wasn’t just a servant who happened to be around on the night Violet Holmes died. The police had interviewed everyone, and even Mycroft and Sherlock had been there to watch and occasionally pose their own questions. How had Mary’s subterfuge gone unnoticed until now?

And they might not have caught onto it at all. That was what really bothered him. Fortunately Molly had been paying attention and had enough of a history with Mary to realize that there was more to the situation than Mary was letting on, but it could’ve so easily gone a different way. Sherlock’s death would hit all of them hard (and still might, a traitorous voice in the back of his mind couldn’t help pointing out) and Mary would’ve spent another two or three weeks at the mansion before quitting. She'd have walked away with none of them the wiser that she’d ever been an accomplice.

He gritted his teeth, wondering at his own lack of acknowledgement. He’d never depended on Sherlock or Mycroft before, and the fact that he was more frustrated at them then at himself for not having noticed Mary was telling. Was he getting sloppy? Why hadn’t it occurred to him to pay more attention to the servants in the house rather than leaving that work to other people? Would he have blithely trusted the competence of others before becoming a wolf, before he mated with Mycroft? He wasn’t sure, and that was troubling.

In the uneasy silence following Mary’s story, Mycroft shifted. It was a deliberate move designed to draw attention and it worked. “Where is Irene Adler?” he asked, the words coming out soft and unthreatening. A total bluff. The tightly coiled power beneath that fitted suit could snap Mary’s neck in seconds, and judging by the genuine fear in her scent she knew it. 

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “As far as I knew Irene’s business here was completed. And now that it has been, I have no idea where she would go.”

“How did she contact you?” Greg asked.

“By phone – hey!” Mary protested when Jane stepped closer to her and snagged her phone out of the pocket of her uniform. Jane shot her a cool glance designed to shut her up fast and it worked. She went quiet, though the resentful look on her face didn’t fade as Jane started searching through her phone.

“And you have no other way to get in contact with her,” Greg said sceptically.

“Look, my job was simple. I’m not stupid. I didn’t need her to hold my hand,” Mary said crossly, folding her arms across her chest. “I’ve told you everything I know. Can I go now?”

“Jane,” Mycroft said. Underneath the desk, visible only to Greg, his hands had clenched into fists. For Mycroft to be showing that kind of emotion he had to be at the end of his leash, and Greg reacted immediately. He glanced at Jane and cleared his throat pointedly, and she took Mary by the arm and physically pulled her out of the room. Molly hesitated to follow, looking like she wanted to say something, but now wasn’t the time. It _really_ wasn’t the time. 

“Later,” he told her, already turning to Mycroft, pulling the chair back and settling himself neatly across Mycroft’s lap. Like this, his thighs were stretched wide and it was a strangely vulnerable position. But at the same time, he like the feeling of having Mycroft underneath him. He gently cupped his mate’s face, hearing the sounds of Molly’s quiet departure, and guided Mycroft’s chin up until their eyes met. 

The pain and turmoil he found there made his heart ache even more. Though neither of the Holmes brothers would ever be willing to admit it, for a long time Sherlock and Mycroft had been each other’s world. Even after Sherlock moved to London and became a consulting detective and a total pain in Greg’s arse, he’d never really stopped being the most important thing in Mycroft’s life. There was just no coming back from a bond like that, regardless of the fact that they had now found mates, and Greg could live with the fact that he was below, or maybe on par with, Sherlock.

Except in situations like this, when Mycroft was suffering and Sherlock was dying and he couldn’t really do a damn thing about it. He leaned down, letting their lips come together in a kiss that started off gentle but rapidly turned into something heated and angry. Greg opened his mouth on instinct, letting Mycroft in more from surprise than anything else, and gasped as strong hands gripped his hips in a bruising hold. 

Maybe there was something he could do after all. He inhaled shakily when Mycroft broke the kiss, tipping his head and moaning softly when teeth instantly attacked his throat. He could feel Mycroft hardening underneath him and knew that this would be hard and fast. He was fine with that. He shifted his weight until he could work a hand between them, intending to open his jeans, but Mycroft snarled. It was a savage sound and Greg froze, too shocked to respond as claws raked down his thighs and cut the denim and his underwear into tatters.

Mycroft ripped the remainder of the fabric away from his lower half like it was somehow offensive, his eyes so bright with gold that Greg’s breath hitched. He slapped Greg’s hand away and pressed his own hand between them, freeing his cock and swiping a small, half used old tube of lubrication from the desk. He was perfunctory about slicking himself up, and Greg only remembered to exhale when those hands landed back on his waist and pulled him forward and down.

He stared into Mycroft’s eyes in fascination, jolting when he felt the touch of something cold and sticky slick pressing against him. It stung with sharp pain when Mycroft pressed him down, but in a way that cut straight through the edge of grief and rage swirling in his chest. This was what they both needed, clarity, and he put his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, felt the flesh of his buttocks slide against Mycroft’s trousers, and start to fuck himself on his alpha’s cock in earnest.

Teeth bared, Mycroft dug his fingers in painfully but otherwise did not participate. He was sweating, eyes glazed but wanting, and Greg didn’t break their gaze once. Not even when his hip bones started to throb from the strength of Mycroft’s grip. His thighs burned from the exertion, but he didn’t stop. He drove himself down mindlessly until a groan was forced out from between Mycroft’s clenched teeth and he thrust up hard for the first time unexpectedly.

The edge of his knot caught against Greg’s rim and he cried out, a hollow sound as he came down with all of his weight and it popped inside – oh god, so _full_ without the hazy flush of heat to ease the way. He was suddenly relieved for his hold on Mycroft’s shoulders, clinging to his mate as his orgasm swept over him with all the force of a punch in the stomach. It was dizzying and he gasped for breath, blinking sweat out of his eyes, as the hands on his hips finally eased and swept up to frame his ribs.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, and he sounded like himself again: not just raw fury hiding behind forced composure, but Mycroft Holmes, and Greg was so grateful he started blinking for an entirely different reason. Mycroft kissed him then, softer and sweeter, coaxing his mouth open and gentling him with sweeps of his tongue across Greg’s lower lip.

“M’okay,” Greg said, feeling equal parts exhausted and satisfied. The worry and fear and everything else was still there, but it felt a lot more manageable now. He nosed at Mycroft’s neck, licking and sucking at the flesh sleepily as a large hand settled in soothing circles on his back. Only Mycroft could make him feel this fragile and cared for at the same time. He sighed. “You good?”

“Better than I was, yes. I have to confess, I’ve never indulged in this method of stress release in the middle of a work day but I may have to start.”

Greg snorted. “Couldn’t keep me at your office, and this isn’t a work day. It’s personal, My, and you don’t have to keep locking everything away. Gets harder, sometimes, doing that.”

“I know.” 

“No you don’t,” Greg mumbled. “You’re a stubborn arse, just like your brother.”

Mycroft’s chest vibrated with his laughter and Greg smiled, pleased to be able to invoke that response. He nuzzled a little closer, squirming until he was comfortable. As soon as they could separate, they’d be right back at it: hopefully Jane had discovered useful information from Mary’s phone. But in the meantime, at least they had a few minutes together.


	27. Chapter 27

John was sitting on the edge of his and Sherlock’s bed, head resting in his hands, when he heard his mobile phone start to beep. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there for by that point, but he knew it had been a while. He couldn’t get the image of Sherlock out of his mind, how pale and strangely still his alpha had been. Sherlock was _never_ that still. Even in sleep was he was a twitchy bastard, not to mention clingy, and to see him like that was just... wrong.

He sucked in a deep breath and held it, waiting until black spots started popping in front of his eyes before he slowly released it. Only then, feeling marginally less like he was going to lose it on the person unfortunate enough to be on the other end, did he shift around so that he could reach into his pocket. He pulled his phone out and squinted at it. He’d missed the call, but there was a new text waiting from an unidentified number. He opened it and stared at the screen for a couple of minutes, confused.

_Fancy a drink?_

“What the…?” he muttered. It wasn’t very often he got requests from people to go out and get drunk. It happened even less now that he’d accepted the fact that he was a werewolf and, as such, alcohol didn’t have as much of an effect on him as it did a human. He'd found out fast that his old army mates didn’t take lightly to the fact that he could now easily drink them under the table and then walk away no worse for the wear.

He hoped to God it wasn’t from Harry. The last thing she needed was to be drinking again. But then, even if she was it wasn’t likely she’d invite him to come along. She didn’t like being judged while she indulged, and she’d accused him more than once of not being able to stop with the disappointed looks. It was probably a wrong number. Still, he couldn’t help typing back:

_who is this?_

The answer came almost instantly.

_It’s not who I am, but what I can do for you and your mate._

The hair on the back of John’s neck prickled and he sat up straight. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the grammar and spelling in the two messages were both perfect, which was unusual. He’d only ever seen that with Sherlock, who’d made no attempt to hide the fact that he abhorred the shortcuts people usually took when they were texting. It was one of the reasons John delighted in using them. He painstakingly typed out a reply:

_and what do u think u can do 4 us?_

_Meet the car at the gate and find out._

John stared at the message and then stood up, moving quickly to the window. He and Sherlock had a room that faced the front of the mansion, and though it was still dark he thought he could make out a shape that vaguely resembled a car waiting at the gate. His heart rate quickened. He wasn’t certain who’d been sending him the messages, and so it was probably foolish to even contemplate going. But he could make an educated guess about who it was, and if he was right then she was the only person who could save Sherlock’s life.

He turned away from the window and strode over to his suitcase, kneeling down and unzipping the lining. He felt around for only a moment before he pulled out his gun. Sherlock had insisted he bring it, not that it had taken much convincing. For the first time since the doctor had told them Sherlock’s diagnosis, he felt calm again with that weapon in his hand. He had, if not a clear goal, at least something to do. He tucked the gun into his waistband and let his jacket fall across, hiding the line it would’ve otherwise created beneath his shirt.

The mansion was mostly quiet as he made his way down. There were lights on and the low murmur of voices coming from the direction of Mycroft’s office, but he didn’t bother to stop. He knew that Mycroft and Greg would insist on calling in reinforcements, and they just didn’t have that much time to wait. It would take too long. The text message hadn’t even asked him to keep this a secret – had it, he probably wouldn’t have. He kept going, right out the door and down the steps to the long driveway. The gates were open and the car was there.

A door opened as he approached and, after one last glance back at the mansion, he slid inside. There was no one else in the backseat, and the front was separated from his view by tinted glass. The second his door was shut the car pulled away. John watched out the window, but he didn’t recognize where they were headed. It was in the opposite direction of where they’d taken Sherlock, at least.

They drove for a long time, about thirty minutes, and he was thankful for the patience that the fighting in Afghanistan had granted him. It meant that he wasn’t a complete wreck when the car finally stopped. The building was out in the middle of nowhere and looked like a warehouse of some sort, probably built for storage. The front doors were open and he took the obvious hint, striding inside. He kept his hands down at his sides, not willing to reveal his gun quite yet.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find Irene Adler there waiting for him. She was standing right in the middle of the large room, arms folded, mobile phone in one gloved hand. The last couple of days had clearly been good for her, because her hair had been cut and dyed a lighter shade of brown and her clothing looked like new. She smiled at him with darkly painted lips, and he stopped short.

“Hello, John,” she said pleasantly, like they were a couple of friends who’d met on the pavement in the middle of the day. “How have you been?”

“Are you kidding me?” John said, unconsciously clenching one hand into a fist. The desire to attack, to _kill_ , surged through him and he wasn’t certain that he really felt like holding back. Her blood would have felt and tasted so good.

Irene’s smile tightened. “Yes, I suppose you’re upset about your alpha.”

“He’s dying!”

“Sherlock and I go way back. I would never actually allow him to die,” Irene said. “Why do you think I texted you in the first place? It wasn’t so that you could try to shoot me with that gun you have hidden under your jacket.” She laughed a little when he started. “Don’t even bother trying to hide it. You’re not the only one who has learned a thing or two from the Holmes brothers.”

John scowled, disliking the reminder that she and Sherlock had ever been close. “It sure didn’t stop you from dosing him up in the first place.”

“He was the one who got in my way.”

“You killed his mother.”

Now her smile was completely gone. “That’s not true. I didn’t hurt Violet Holmes. She was blackmailing me, yes. She was certain that I was a better match for Sherlock than you are. But all I needed to do was get back the evidence. Once I had that, she had no hold over me.”

“But you didn’t get it back,” John pointed out. “That's why you came back. So what, did she hide it from you and you got pissed and killed her?”

“No. When I went there that night, my plans got derailed by someone else. I don’t know who, but they were already there when I arrived,” Irene replied. “Violet was fighting with her.”

“Her. A woman?”

She nodded. “As I said, I’m not sure who it was. I could hear them fighting as soon as I entered. Most of the employees were off for the night and those that weren’t had been occupied elsewhere. I was pleased that Violet was meeting someone, as I thought it would give me more time to search. I wasn’t expecting the gun shot.”

“So you actually heard the murder happen."

“Yes, but before you ask I didn’t stick around to see who it was. I had no weapon on me. I left and decided to come back later.”

“Where you poisoned Sherlock.”

“About that... I’m leaving.” She held up a hand to forestall his objections. “I called you out here for two reasons, John. To let you know that I didn’t kill Violet, and to give you the antidote for Sherlock. If you allow me to leave without interfering, I’ll text you the location. I’ve hidden it in the building. But you won’t find it unless I tell you where it is, and I won’t tell you until I’m gone.”

John was fairly confident of his ability to eventually get the whereabouts of the antidote out of her. He’d learned a lot more than just patience as a soldier. But Sherlock didn’t have that kind of time, and as much as he hated to admit he thought there was a chance she was telling the truth about Violet Holmes. 

“If you ever come around Sherlock again, I’ll kill you,” he said softly, meaning every word. “And if he dies, I’ll hunt you down.”

Irene met his gaze squarely. “I know. Ten minutes, no more.”

"Then go."


	28. Chapter 28

The ten minutes John spent waiting for Irene's text to come through were the longest of his life. Not that he just stood there waiting, of course. The second she was gone he started searching the building, starting with the room that he and Irene had been in. That one was a relatively quick search because there was basically nothing else in the room, and he rapidly moved on to what appeared to be an old office that was filled with so much decrepit old furniture that he was hard pressed to get the door open, never mind to find a way inside. Just a quick glance made his stomach sink. If Irene had hidden the antidote here, it would take him hours to find it.

He swore softly under his breath and shoved his way into the room, wincing as a desk teetered dangerously and then fell over with a crash when two of the legs collapsed under its weight. A cloud of dust rose up and he coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. For the life of him he couldn't imagine what Irene had been doing _here_ in the first place. This definitely didn't seem like the kind of place that she would even know about, much less be seen in. But then, maybe that was the whole point. Mycroft's and Jane's men might have been looking in the wrong places the whole time. Had his mate's life not been hanging in the balance, John might have felt a flicker of grudging respect for Irene Adler at that moment for hiding right under the nose of the British government.

Using his phone as a source of light, he began poking around the room looking for anything that might qualify as an antidote. The searching actually wasn't as difficult as he had feared because most of the desks were empty, their drawers long gone. It left him with fewer nooks and crannies where a vial could've been slipped. Still, he felt a profound sense of relief when, midway through his inspection of an old chair that was missing most of its stuffing, his phone beeped with an incoming message.

_Go out the back door and walk a hundred feet straight. Turn right and walk another hundred feet. Then left for another hundred feet. Look up._

That was all it said. John stared at the text in frustration before sighing, knowing that he would get no more. He hurried over to the door and went back out into the main room, finding his way to the back door of the building. He followed the instructions to the letter, not surprised when he ended up in the forest that was just beyond the building. Irene's message led him to a tree. As directed, he glanced up. Almost directly overhead, impossible to see unless you were standing directly underneath it, was a small black package. The only way John was even able to see it was because of the mirror that had been pinned to the bottom, which reflected the light of his phone.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, realizing that Irene was right. He never would've found the package on his own. Not until the sun had come up, at least, and by then there was a good chance Sherlock would have been beyond help. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and scaled the tree, which was far easier said than done even with his superior eyesight and strength. His hands were covered in scratches and slippery with blood by the time he'd reached the package, but he didn't care. The knot came untied with a simple tug and he tucked it carefully into his coat before climbing back down.

Safely on the ground, John ripped into the package and pulled out the single vial it contained. It was about half full of a colourless liquid. It could've been water for all he knew, and he didn't dare open it just in case he dropped it. Sherlock would probably need all that there was, provided that John hadn't just got played by Irene. And God help the woman if that was the case, because John hadn't been joking when he'd promised to hunt her down. He fished his phone out again and typed out a message.

_thats it?_

_Yes._

Short and concise, but then John had to admit he was surprised that he'd got a reply at all. He typed back,

_what did violet have to blackmail u with?_

and then stuffed both vial and phone safely into his coat pocket. He retraced his steps back to the building, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that the car that had brought him there was still parked out front. He climbed into the back and the car took off immediately in the direction from which they’d come. The window remained up, but that didn’t stop John from leaning forward and rapping on it sharply.

“I need to go to the hospital as fast as you can get there,” he said, loudly enough that he was certain his voice could be heard by the driver. There was no answer, of course, save for the beep of a new message that now seemed strangely loud in the otherwise quiet car.

Truth be told, he wasn’t expecting Irene to give him an honest answer. Or any answer at all, really. What he’d asked was incredibly private, something that Irene had been willing to go to extreme lengths to keep quiet. So he was shocked to see that the text had come with an attachment. He opened it automatically and found himself staring at a black and white photograph of a toddler with dark hair and pale eyes. Underneath the photo were two additional words.

_My son._

A child. Irene had a child? He had to wonder if Sherlock had known, because the detective hadn’t mentioned it. But why would Irene be so anxious to conceal the fact that she had a baby? Why would that be enough for Violet to blackmail her? He glanced down at the phone again, hoping to God that the child wasn’t Sherlock’s, because that would open up a whole new set of problems that he didn’t think anyone was really prepared to deal with.

If the drive to the building had taken ages, the drive back made John feel like he was about five years older by the time the car had stopped right out front of the hospital. He stumbled out, not even caring that the car immediately drove off behind him, and rushed inside. His heart was pounding as he made his way to Sherlock’s room, half-expecting to see an empty bed and a sympathetic nurse waiting to tell him that he was too late.

But there wasn’t. Sherlock was exactly where John had left him. Doctor Cormier was in the room with him, making notes on the clipboard. He looked up with a friendly enough smile and said, “Hello, Mr Holmes. I’m afraid there’s been no change.”

John’s stomach twisted at being called Holmes. That had never happened before. He didn’t bother to correct the doctor, either. He thrust out the vial. “Here, this is supposed to be the antidote,” he said anxiously. His hand was trembling.

Cormier raised an eyebrow but took the vial. He popped open the top. The smell wasn’t unpleasant, almost sweet. Earthy in a way John wasn’t expecting. “Where did you get this?”

“That doesn’t matter. Please, just give it to him.”

“Do you even know what it is?” The doctor asked, eyeing him doubtfully. “I don’t recognize it. Are you certain that it’s actually an antidote?”

John hesitated long enough for Cormier’s frown to deepen. He wasn’t nearly as sure as he wanted to be, considering that it was Sherlock’s life hanging in the balance. Trusting Irene at this moment seemed like a fool’s game. But if Sherlock didn’t get the antidote, he was going to die regardless. They might as well take the chance. “Yes, I am. Please give it to him.”

“I’ll need you to sign some forms indicating that we’re doing so with your express permission,” Cormier said after a long pause.

“Yes, that’s fine, anything. Just give it to him,” John said, knowing that he sounded more than a little desperate. He stepped closer and took Sherlock’s hand, breathing in the scent of him that was tainted by the sharp smell of chemicals and the bitter smell of death. 

It was all a blur after that, a pen being shoved into his hand and paperwork thrust under his nose. He scrawled his signature about twenty times in a row, most of them illegible because he was too focused on watching a nurse take the vial and insert it into Sherlock’s I.V., on watching that liquid begin its slow progress down the thin tube into Sherlock’s elbow. Now that adrenaline was leaving him he felt a little shaky, but he refused to move away from Sherlock’s side. The nurse ended up bringing him a chair.

A couple of hours passed, and at some point Greg and Mycroft and Jane and Molly came in. Mycroft was clearly annoyed, but John didn’t have it in him to answer a single question and he seemed to realize that. John couldn’t even look at them. He couldn’t take his eyes away from his alpha’s face.

That’s why he saw it, the second those eyelids flickered and cracked open.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock wasn’t immediately responsive. After staring at John for about thirty seconds with no focus or recognition in his eyes even though John clutched his hand and said his name, his eyes slipped shut again and his body went lax. It happened several times over the course of the next twenty or so hours. Doctor Cormier came in and examined him and then told them that it was normal, that Sherlock’s system was working through the remainder of the poison. The fact that he was showing signs of consciousness at all was an extremely positive sign.

John was there every time Sherlock woke up, steadfastly refusing to leave his mate’s side even as the full moon grew closer. He could feel the pull in his bones now, manifesting as a deep ache in muscles that were begging to be properly stretched. He longed to be outside in the open air. He and Sherlock rarely spent the moon in the confines of 221b, instead preferring to run the streets of London. Sometimes Greg joined them if Mycroft wasn’t around. Being inside the cramped hospital room felt wrong.

But he didn’t want to leave Sherlock. He suspected that the change might be the trigger that would flush the rest of the toxin from Sherlock’s body, and he wanted to be there when Sherlock woke up and was actually lucid. So he shook his head silently in response to the unasked question when Greg got up about an hour before the sun would go down. To his credit, Greg didn’t bother to ask out loud. He just clapped John on the shoulder, squeezing gently in a show of support, and walked out of the room.

He shut the door behind Greg and waited until the last possible moment before he stripped, neatly folding his clothes and setting them on the stand. Unlike Sherlock and Mycroft, who had apparently been born without a sense of shame when it came to nudity, he didn’t like being seen naked in his human form and preferred privacy during the change. He took Sherlock’s hand again and sat down to wait, wishing that the hospital room had a better view of the sky than it did. He didn’t actually see the moon rise, but he _felt_ it.

A groan was tugged out of his mouth, twisting into a snarl midway through as his muscles rippled and began to change. He slipped off the chair and fell to the floor, writhing. He just barely heard a high-pitched beeping from the monitors and struggled to focus on that, panting heavily as bright hot pain flooded through him before receding. He was left on the floor, hunched over, his tail curled protectively around his paws. John sat up slowly, moving cautiously until he’d confirmed that nothing else hurt. Only then did he stand up and stretch muscles that had gone unused for too long.

His leg ached a little when he moved it. The pain from his old shoulder wound was always a little worse when he was a wolf because of the continuous pressure that was placed on the muscles when he walked, and he remembered with a little amusement what Sherlock had told him when they met: that he’d limped as a human because he’d limped as a wolf, and he hadn’t yet learned to disassociate the two bodies in his mind to that degree. It wasn’t quite so bad now, and though he sometimes still limped as a wolf he never did as a human.

A tail thumped him on the head as John was musing. He sputtered and looked up, joy quickly replacing any sense of outrage he might’ve felt when he saw Sherlock’s amused eyes staring back at him. John whined and instantly sat back on his haunches, paws resting on the edge of the bed. He didn’t dare jump up, not certain that the bed was strong enough to hold their combined weight without collapsing, but his eyes greedily took in the sight of Sherlock sitting up. He couldn’t stop his tail from wagging with pleasure.

Sherlock rumbled in response, deep and soothing, and dragged his tongue across John’s muzzle in greeting. John curled towards him, inhaling a scent that was much stronger in this form – though it was still noticeably tainted with the harsh, bitter scents of the hospital that made him want to sneeze – and Sherlock nudged in closer until he could gently place his teeth around the back of John’s neck. He held the position for several minutes until John relaxed under him. 

With an approving huff, Sherlock released him and stood up. It took him a moment to find his balance but he managed, jumping down from the bed with that same air of grace that he had as a human. He looked at the window with an expression that was entirely too speculative for John’s liking, and he just _knew_ that Sherlock was calculating how best to open it so that they could both leap out. Had he been human John would’ve protested, but the pull to be outside and running free was now too strong to ignore.

The window had a simple enough latch, possibly designed with this exact scenario in mind, and Sherlock was able to hook one of his claws around it and yank. The glass swung open and a beautiful breeze poured in. It was cool, but John’s fur was thick enough that it just felt refreshing. It was fortunate that they were on the ground floor because Sherlock didn’t hesitate before he leapt out. John rolled his eyes but followed, tingling in pleasure when he felt frosted grass beneath the pads of his paws. He wiggled, breathing deep, and then gave into the urge to drop to the ground and roll around until the chemical scent of the hospital had been scrubbed from his fur.

When he looked up again, the expression of disdain on Sherlock’s face was so perfect that John would have burst into laughter if he was capable. He wagged his tail again instead and let his tongue loll out of his mouth. The happiness he was feeling couldn’t be contained, though, and he tackled Sherlock like a puppy. He got more pleasure than he probably should have out of hearing the shocked grunt that action earned him as they tumbled ass over paws across the grass. 

Sherlock shoved him off finally and got up, shaking his fur out and pouting. He eyed John for about ten seconds, as though daring him to do something so undignified a second time. John gazed back with an expression of perfect innocence even though he was well aware that Sherlock wasn’t falling for it even a little bit. He knew Sherlock knew what he was about to do next, so he wasn’t surprised in the least when Sherlock got there first.

This time Sherlock pounced on him, though because John was prepared for it the momentum wasn’t enough to send him rolling back. He twisted instead, batting Sherlock away with his front paws, and nipped playfully at Sherlock’s side before darting across the road. He remembered the way back to the mansion even though he’d only come this way once. Sherlock caught up to him in a couple of long, loping strides, and although he gave John another thump on the side with his tail he didn’t try to tackle him again.

He was never sure of how long it actually took them to get back, beyond the simple answer of not nearly long enough. At some point early on he dropped back a bit, let Sherlock take over directing them, trusting that the years of intimate knowledge he possessed would serve them better than John’s rudimentary grasp on the area. He was more focused on how good it felt to be outside, to be running through the moonlit night with his alpha at his side. John could’ve easily done this for hours.

It was right about that time he heard the distant howling and recognized it for what it was: a greeting from the rest of their pack. A slender, russet-coloured wolf made it to them first, one that he’d only seen once before, brown eyes wide with excitement. John wolfed a greeting at Molly and she yipped back, practically dancing in place. And then, like staying still was too much to ask of her, she spun in a quick circle. Her tail was wagging so hard it was just a blur.

Greg was right behind her and he trotted straight over to Sherlock, sniffing him all over like a concerned parent. Surprisingly, Sherlock dropped his shoulders and allowed the treatment, though the look in his eyes suggested it was only because he knew Greg wasn’t above trying to pin him down. John flicked an ear with amusement and looked for Jane and Mycroft, knowing that they couldn’t be far behind. Sure enough, the two of them were approaching more slowly, attempting to maintain an air of dignity that was belied by the shiver of joy in the air.

Jane was a gorgeous wolf – a little bigger than Molly, dark and sleek – and she tipped her head to John in greeting. He nodded back and sat down to scratch an itch on his belly as Mycroft and Sherlock eyed each other, like they were communicating silently in that strange, Holmesian way. There was no more contact between them than there would have been had they been human at the time, but he had the feeling that something had been settled by the time that they simultaneously broke the stare.

Mycroft voiced a deep bark, one that John heard all the way to his bones, and Sherlock responded in kind. This time the six of them ran together.


	30. Chapter 30

Molly woke up feeling warm and safe, and for once it wasn't just because the early morning sun was shining on her face. No, it was because she was lying right in the middle of several pairs of tangled arms, legs and torsos. She opened her eyes slowly, squinting in the bright light. The sky was a clear blue, indicating that it was going to be a beautiful day, and the sun was about halfway up. There was a little bit of a fog and a slight chill in the air, but once it burned off the temperature was going to rise quickly.

She blinked a couple of times and then lifted her head a bit, taking stock of the situation. Sherlock was lying on his back and Molly had her head pillowed on his thigh. John was right beside her, so close that Molly's shoulder and hip were pressed to his back, buttocks and thighs, only he was on his side facing Sherlock and his head was resting on Sherlock's belly. Jane was lying beside Molly but further down, so that she wasn't touching Sherlock and her face was tucked into Molly's hip, one arm slung across Molly's thighs.

On the other side of Sherlock, Greg had taken possession of the other side of Sherlock's thighs to use as a pillow. If Molly tilted her head to the left, she would've been kissing his forehead. She did so now, carefully so as not to wake him, propping herself up just enough so that she could see Mycroft was also lying on his back beside his brother. Greg's legs were tossed carelessly across Mycroft's belly, and Mycroft had one hand cupped tenderly around Greg's right ankle.

All six of them were stark naked. 

In spite of her best efforts to keep from waking anyone else up, Sherlock opened a green-grey eye and looked at her. The sheer exasperation in his face made her want to giggle. If she had to wager a guess, she would've said that he'd probably been awake for a couple of hours now. Possibly he had even made an attempt to extract himself once or twice, although if that was the case he'd clearly been foiled. Molly grinned back at him and snuggled in closer to John just because she could.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, though he didn't move. It still seemed to be enough to wake John though, who stirred sluggishly. Like that was a sign, Greg mumbled something and opened his eyes, blinking confusedly at Molly. Jane's hand around her hips tightened, though that was the only indicator she had awoken. Molly just laid there and smiled, because it had been years since she'd had a moment like this and there was nothing quite like the comfort and belonging of your pack.

It was John who spoke first, disrupting the peace with a hoarsely spoken, "Sherlock?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Now if you don't mind, get off."

"But you're comfortable," Molly objected.

John started and glanced over his shoulder, like he was only just realizing that he and Sherlock weren't actually alone. His eyes went wide and his whole face went pink when it occurred to him that they were both naked and that they were pressed together fairly intimately. As in, his buttocks was in close contact with her hip and Jane's hand. Molly was then witness to a very amusing couple of seconds wherein John tried to decide whether it was better to scramble away from the contact or remain where he was so that they couldn't see him from the front.

"Some of us are still trying to sleep," Greg pointed out finally.

"Do it somewhere else," Sherlock said, though he still didn't try to squirm out from under them.

Jane chuckled, her lips soft against the curve of Molly's hip, and finally sat up. In the morning late she was even more gorgeous than normal, her perfect hair rumpled into damp curls. "We should be getting back anyway, I'm afraid. There's still a couple of things we have to do."

"Like what?" John said.

"Like catching the people who killed Violet Holmes."

That got his attention, and modesty took a back seat as he sat up. "What?"

"Greg and I told them about the Black Lotus gang while you and Sherlock were in the hospital," Molly told him sheepishly. She was a little worried that John might feel slighted that he hadn't been there for big reveal, though in the end it hadn't been very dramatic at all. Greg had actually been the one who mentioned it first, and she was positive he'd only done so in an effort to distract Mycroft from pretending that he wasn’t worrying about his brother.

"I had the opportunity to do a little more research before the moon rose," Jane added. "Violet's murder was very characteristic of one of their top assassins, Zhi Zhu. The Spider. He's a dangerous man. Molly told us about your theory, John." She smiled at him. "That was very smart."

John flushed, but it was Sherlock who spoke first. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, sounding very annoyed.

"It's simple, dear brother." Mycroft sat up finally, somehow managing to look dignified even though he was stark naked in the middle of a field with blades of his grass caught in his hair. "On the side of her little blackmail business, Mother stumbled onto some key information concerning an international group of smugglers: the Black Lotus gang. It's possible that this entire situation has been a coincidence, but I think it far more likely that, in a desperate bid for notoriety, she purchased a few of their smuggled items hoping to find some evidence against them. Instead, she found something else."

"The Black Pearl of the Borgias," Jane said softly, her tone approaching reverence. "John was correct. They were using silly little statues to smuggle items of far greater value into the country and Violet discovered one. And then the Black Lotus gang found _her_. We're not sure yet whether she approached them or they tracked her down."

"When she wouldn't hand it over, they killed her," Greg finished, rubbing his eyes and blinking sleepily. "Just like a stubborn Holmes."

"So it wasn't Irene," John said, and much to Molly's surprise he sounded relieved.

"No, but you already knew that," Jane said, fixing him with a look. John met her stare squarely, refusing to back down, and she added, "That was very foolish of you, John. Irene could have killed you."

There was a hard look in John's eyes. "She had the antidote."

"Which she could have easily been lying about -"

"That doesn't matter," Molly said, placing a calming hand on Jane's thigh when it seemed as though she might continue to argue. "The important thing is that Sherlock is okay. If he and Mycroft decide to track Irene down later for punishment that's one thing, but for now I think we should focus on the Black Lotus gang. Aren't they based out of China? If they realize you know this Spider guy killed Mrs Holmes, they could flee."

"You're right," said Greg, flashing Molly a thankful smile. Clearly she wasn't the only one who'd had misgivings about the brewing fight. 

Sherlock had been listening to this in silence. Now, he said, "You haven't caught them yet?" 

"They're an _international smuggling ring_ , Sherlock. That’s a little outside of Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction."

"An international smuggling ring that is searching for something valuable that is in our possession," Sherlock snapped back. "Mummy never would have left the Pearl out in the open for anyone to find, but she wouldn't have stopped at just that." He smiled humourlessly. "She likely had a copy made, which the Spider no doubt stole after he killed her to keep her silence on the matter."

"I've sent someone to collect the real Pearl," Mycroft said into the ensuing silence. 

"You didn't tell me that," Greg said.

"I was waiting until I could be certain that we wouldn't be overheard." Mycroft glanced around pointedly and Molly automatically followed his gaze. The fog had started to burn off and it was blatantly obvious that the six of them were probably half a mile or so from the mansion. There was no way anyone was monitoring them all the way out here.

"So we set a trap," Sherlock said. 

"You make it sound so easy," Molly muttered.

"Technically, he does have a point. Frankly I'm surprised that the Spider hasn't been back already," Jane said thoughtfully. "They must know by now that the Pearl he retrieved was a fake."

"Maybe they're waiting for something," Molly suggested. 

Jane looked at her. "Like word from someone on the inside?"

"No," Molly said immediately, already knowing what Jane was thinking. She shook her head in denial. "No, I know my cousin. Mary wouldn't -"

"She worked for Moriarty, Molly," Greg said gently, ignoring Sherlock's sputter. "She said it herself, she's a criminal for hire. Typically, if you're willing to work for one you'll work for them all. It's not much of a stretch to think she'd be willing to work for the Black Lotus." He flicked his eyes towards Mycroft. "We were all under a lot of stress. It's possible she was lying about how much she really knows."

Molly felt sick to her stomach. If that was true, then she really didn't know Mary at all. Jane placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently in comfort before looking to the others. "We need to make a plan before we go back."

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/)!


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